

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 









•» 


SCHOOLS AND SCHOOLMASTERS 


FROM THE WRITINGS OF 


. y 

CHARLES EIOKENS. 



T. J. OHAPMAF, M. A. 


A, S. BARNES & COMPANY, 


NEW YORK AND CHICAGO. 


,r]56^^ 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 
A. S. BARNES & COMPANY, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 


/ 




PEEFAOE. 


♦ - 

I N the following pages we have brought together several 
sketches of schools and schoolmasters, compiled from 
the writings of Charles Dickens. Our author needs no intro- 
duction or commendation. He is “the w'orld’s heir of 
fame.” For the last thirty-five years he has been one of the 
brightest stars in our literature. He is but recently dead ; and 
the world is full of sorrow at its loss. “ Life,” says Dr. Mac- 
kenzie, “ has been better and brighter for what he has done. 
He was the champion of the oppressed, he was the censor of 
the selfish rich. In a single one of his tales was matter far 
more serious and convincing than could be found in a pyramid 
of lengthy homilies, in which Christian charity was distinguish- 
ed by its absence. Even when he amused, he taught. No 
vile thoughts, no prurient suggestions, no foul words are to be 
found in the writings of Charles Dickens. Even when he 
treated of crime and poverty his language was not base or low. 
The practical spirit he endeavored to inculcate was that of com- 
prehensive Christianity.” 

But with reference to our part in the preparation of this lit- 
tle volume, we desire to say a word. We have found our task a 
somewhat difficult one. The characters in Dickens’s works are 
so combined, that it is not easy to disunite them, — the various 


4 


PREFACE. 


threads in his narratives are so interwoven, that it is next to 
impossible to draw out one without breaking it. We find that 
we have sometimes broken them ; but we have preferred to pre- 
sent them fragmentary as they may be, to changing any w’ord 
or expression of our author. The language we give is the lam 
guage of Charles Dickens. 

We now present this little compilation to the public, — 
especially to the pedagogical part of it, — confident that it will 
be found both entertaining and instructive. 


July, 1871. 


T. J. C. 


OOE'TEljJ'TS 


PAGE. 


rK)THEBOT’S HALL 9 

THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBER’S. 107 

THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOUSE 181 

THE SCHOOL. AT DR. STRONG’S. 205 




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DOTHEBOTS HALL. 








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DOTHEBOYS HALL. 

[from " NICHOLAS NICKLEBT.”] 


CHAPTER I. 

M r. SQUEERS’S appearance was not prepossessing. He 
had but one eye, and the popular prejudice runs in favor 
of two. The eye he had was unquestionably useful, but decided- 
ly not ornamental, being of a greenish gray, and in shape resem- 
bling the fan-light of a street door. The blank side of his face 
was much wrinkled and puckered up, which gave him a very sin- 
ister appearance, especially when he smiled, at which times his 
ex]3ression bordered closely on the villanous. His hair was 
very flat and shiny, save at the ends, where it was brushed 
stiffly up from a low protrudi-ng forehead, which assorted well 
with his harsh voice and coarse manner. He was about two 
or three and fifty, and a trifle below the middle size ; he wore 
a white neckerchief with long ends, and a suit of scholastic 
black, but his coat-sleeves being a great deal too long, and 
his trousers a great deal too short, he appeared ill at ease in 
his clothes, and as if he were in a perpetual state of astonish- 
ment at finding himself so respectable. 

Mr. Squeers was standing in a box by one of the coffee- 
room fire-places, fitted with one such table as is usually seen 
in coffee-rooms, and two of extraordinary shapes and dimen- 
sions made to suit the angles of the partition. In a corner of 


10 


DOTIIEBOYS HALL. 


the seat was a very small deal trunk, tied round with a scanty 
piece of cord : and on the trunk was perched — his lace-up 
half-boots and corduroy trousers dangling in the air — a dimin- 
utive boy, with his shoulders drawn up to his ears, and his 
hands planted on his knees, who glanced timidly at tlie school- 
master from time to lime with evident dread and apprehension. 

“ Half-past three,” muttered Mr. Squeers, turning from the 
window, and looking sulkily at the coffee-room clock. “ There 
will be nobody here to-day.” 

Much vexed by this reflection, Mr. Squeers looked at the 
little boy to see whether he was doing any thing he could beat 
him for ; as he happened not to be doing any thing at all, he 
merely boxed his ears, and told him not to do it again. 

“At Midsummer,” muttered Mr. Squeers, resuming his 
complaint, “I took down ten boys ; ten twentys — two hundred 
pound. I go back at eight o’clock to-morrow morning, and 
have got only three — three oughts an ought — three twos six — 
sixty pound. What’s come of all the boys ! what’s parents got 
in their heads ? what does it all mean ? ” 

Here the little boy on the top of the trunk gave a violent 
sneeze. 

“ Halloa, Sir ! ” growled the schoolmaster, turning round. 
“What’s that. Sir?” 

“ Nothing, please Sir,” replied the little boy. 

“Nothing, Sir?” exclaimed Mr. Squeers. 

“ Please Sir, I sneezed,” replied the little boy, trembling 
till the little trunk shook under him. 

“Oh! sneezed, did you?” retorted Mr. Squeers. “Then 
what did you say ‘ nothing ’ for. Sir 1 ” 

In default of a better answer to this question, the little 
boy screwed a couple of knuckles into each of his eyes and 
began to cry, wherefore, Mr. Squeers knocked him off the 
trunk with a blow on one side of his face, and knocked him 
on again witli a blow on the other. 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


U 


Wait till I get you down into Yorkshire, my young gentle- 
man,” said Mr. Squeers, “ and then I’ll give you the rest. Will 
you hold that noise. Sir ? ” 

“Ye — ye — yes,” sobbed the little boy, rubbing his face 
very hard with the Beggar’s Petition in printed calico. 

** Then do so at once. Sir,” said Squeers. “ Do you hear ? ” 

As this admonition was accompanied with a threatening 
gesture, and uttered with a savage aspect, the little boy rub- 
bed his face harder, as if to keep the tears back ; and, beyond 
alternately sniffing and choking, gave no further vent to his 
emotions. 

“ Mr. Squeers,” said the waiter, looking in at this juncture ; 
“ here’s a gentleman asking for you at the bar.” 

“ Show the gentleman in, Richard,” replied Mr. Squeers in 
a soft voice. “Put your handkerchief in your pocket, you 
little scoundrel, or I’ll murder you when the gentleman goes.” 

The schoolmaster had scarcely uttered these words in a 
fierce whisper, when the stranger entered. Affecting not to see 
him, Mr. Squeers feigned to be intent upon mending a pen, 
and offering benevolent advice to his young pupil. 

“ My dear child,” said Mr. Squeers, “ all people have their 
trials. This early trial of yours that is fit to make your little 
heart burst, and your very eyes come out of your head with 
crying, what is it ! Nothing ; less than nothing. You are 
leaving your friends, but you will have a father in me, my dear, 
and a mother in Mrs. Squeers. At the delightful village of 
. Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge, in Yorkshire, where youth are 
boarded, clothed, booked, washed, furnished with pocket- 
money, provided with all necessaries — ” 

“It is the gentleman,” observed the stranger, stopping the 
schoolmaster in the rehearsal of his advertisement. Mr. Squeers, 
I believe. Sir ? ” 

“The same, Sii,” said Mr. Squeers, with an assumption of 
extreme surprise. 


12 


DOTHEBOTS HALL. 


“ The gentleman,” said the stranger, “ that advertised in 
the Times newspaper — ? ” 

“ Morning Post, Chronicle, Herald, and Advertiser, re- 
garding the Academy called Dotheboys Hall, at the delightful 
village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge, in Yorkshire,” added 
Mr. Squeers. “You come on business. Sir. I see by my 
young friends. How do you do, my little gentleman ? and 
how do you do. Sir ” With this salutation Mr. Squeers patted 
the heads of two hollow-eyed, small-boned little boys, whom 
the applicant had brought with him, and waited for further 
communications. 

“ I am in the oil and color way. My name is Snawley, 
Sir,” said the stranger. 

Squeers inclined his head as much as to say, “ And a re- 
markable pretty name, too.” 

The stranger continued. “I have been thinking, Mr. 
Squeers, of placing my two boys at your school.” 

“ It is not for me to say so, Sir,” replied Mr. Squeers, “ but 
I don’t think you could possibly do a better thing.” 

“ Hem ! ” said the other. “ Twenty pounds per annewum, 
I believe, Mr. Squeers } ” 

“Guineas,” rejoined the schoolmaster, with a persuasive 
smile. 

“ Pounds for two, I think, Mr. Squeers,” said Mr. Snawley 
solemnly. 

“ 1 don’t think it could be done. Sir,” replied Squeers, as 
if he had never considered the proposition before. “ Let me 
see ; four fives is twenty, double that, and deduct the — well, a 
pound either way shall not stand betwixt us. You must rec- 
ommend me to your connection. Sir, and make it up that way.” 

“ They are not great eaters,” said Mr. Snawley. 

“ Oh ! that doesn’t matter at all,” replied Squeers. “ We 
don’t consider the boys appetites at our establishment.” That 
was strictly true ; they did not. 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


13 


“Every wholesome luxury, Sir, that Yorkshire can afford,” 
continued Squeers ; “ every beautiful moral that Mrs. Squeers 
can instil ; every — in short, every comfort of a home that a 
boy could wish for, will be theirs, Mr. Snawley.” 

“ I should wish their morals to be particularly attended to,” 
said Mr. Snawley. 

“ I am glad of that. Sir,” replied the schoolmaster, drawing 
himself up. “They have come to the right shop for morals, 
Sir.” 

“ You are a moral man yourself,” said Mr. Snawley. 

“ I rather believe I am. Sir,” replied Squeers. 

“I have the satisfaction to know you are. Sir,” said Mr. 
Snawley. “ I asked one of your references, and he said you 
w^ere pious.” 

“Well, Sir, I hope I am a little in that way,” replied 
Squeers. 

“ I hope I am also,” rejoined the other. “ Could I say a 
few words with you in the next box ? ” 

“ By all means,” rejoined Squeers, with a grin. “ My dears, 
will you speak to your new playfellow a minute or two ? That 
is one of my boys. Sir, Belling his name is, — a Taunton boy 
that. Sir.” 

“ Is he, indeed ? ” rejoined Mr. Snawley, looking at the poor 
little urchin as if he were some extraordinary natural curiosity. 

“ He goes down with me to-morrow. Sir,” said Squeers. 
“ That’s his luggage that he is sitting upon now. Each boy is 
required to bring. Sir, two suits of clothes, six shirts, six pair 
of stockings, two night-caps, two pocket-handkerchiefs, two 
pair of shoes, two hats, and a razor.” 

“ A razor ! ” exclaimed Mr. Snawley, as they walked into 
the next box. “ What for ? ” 

“ To shave with,” replied Mr. Squeers, in a slow and meas- 
ured tone. 

There was not much in these three words, but there must 


14 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


have been something in the manner in which they were said 
to attract attention, for the schoolmaster and his companion 
looked steadily at each other for a few seconds, and then ex- 
changed a very meaning smile. Snawley was a sleek, flat- 
nosed man, clad in sombre garments, and long black gaiters, 
and having in his countenance an expression of much mortifica- 
tion and sanctity, so that his smiling without any obvious rea- 
son was the more remarkable. 

“Up to what age do you keep boys at your school, then ? ” 
he asked at length. 

“Just as long as their friends make the quarterly payments 
to my agent in town, or until such time as they run away,’’ 
replied Squeers. “ Let us understand each other ; I see we 
may safely do so. What are these boys ; — natural children ? ” 

“ No,” rejoined Snawley, meeting the gaze of the school- 
master’s one eye ; “ they ain’t.” 

“ I thought they might be,” said Squeers, coolly. “ We 
have a good many of them ; that boy’s one.” 

“ Him in the next box ? ” said Snawley. 

Squeers nodded in the affirmative, and his companion took 
another peep at the little boy on the trunk, and turning around 
again, looked as if he were quite disappointed to see him so 
much like other boys, and said he should hardly have thought it. 

“ He is,” cried Squeers. “ But about these boys of yours ; 
you wanted to speak to me ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Snawley. “ The fact is, I am not their 
father, Mr. Squeers. I’m only their father-in-law.” 

Oh ! Is that it ? ” said the schoolmaster. “ That explains 
it at once. I was wondering what the devil you were going to 
send them to Yorkshire for. Hal ha! Oh, I understand 
now.” 

“You see I have married the mother,” pursued Snawley; 
“it’s expensive keeping boys at home, and as she has a little 
money in her own right, I am afraid (women are so foolish, 


DOTHEBOYS HALE. 


15 


Mr. Squeers) that she might be led to squander it on them, 
which would be their ruin, you know.” 

“ I see,” returned Squeers, throwing himself back in his 
chair, and waving his hand. 

“And this,” resumed Snawley, “has made me anxious to 
put them to some school a good distance off, where there are no 
holidays — none of those ill-judged comings home twice a year 
that unsettle children’s minds so — and where they may .rough 
it a little — you comprehend ? ” 

“ The payments regular and no questions asked,” said 
Squeers, nodding his head. 

“ That’s it, exactly,” rejoined the other. “ Morals strictly 
attended to, though.” 

“ Strictly,” said Squeers. 

“ Not too much writing home allowed, I suppose ? ” said 
the father-in-law hesitating. 

“ None, except a circular at Christmas, to say that they 
never were so happy, and hope they may never be sent for,” re- 
joined Squeers. 

“ Nothing could be better,” said the father-in-law, rubbing 
his hands. 

“ Then, as we understand each other,” said Squeers, “ will 
3"OU allow me to ask you whether you consider me a highly vir- 
tuous, exemplary, and well-conducted man in private life ; and 
whether, as a person whose business it is to take charge of 
youth, you place the strongest confidence in my unimpeach- 
able integrity, liberality, religious principles, and ability ? ” 

“ Certainly I do,” replied the father-in-law, reciprocating 
the schoolmaster’s grin. 

“ Perhaps you won’t object to say that, if I make you a 
reference ? ” 

“ Not the least in the world.” 

“ That’s your sort,” said Squeers, taking up a pen ; “ this 
is doing business, and that’s what I like.” 


16 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


Having entered Mr. Snawley’s address, the schoolmaster 
had next to perform the still more agreeable office of entering 
the receipt of the first quarter’s payment in advance, which he 
had scarcely completed, when another voice was heard inquir- 
ing for Mr. Squeers. 

“ Here he is,” replied the schoolmaster ; “ what is it ? ” 
Only a matter of business. Sir,” said Ralph Nickleby, 
presenting himself, closely followed by Nicholas. “There was 
an advertisement of yours in the papers this morning ? ” 

“ There was. Sir. This way, if you please,” said Squeers, 
who had by this time got back to the box by the fire-place. 
“ Won’t you be seated ” 

“Why, I think I will,” replied Ralph, suiting the action to 
the word, and i^lacing his hat on the table before him. “ This 
is my nephew. Sir, Mr. Nicholas Nickleby.” 

“ How do you do. Sir,” said Squeers. 

Nicholas bowed : said he was very well, and seemed very 
much astonished at the outward appearance of the proprietor 
of Dotheboys Hall, as he indeed was. 

“ Perhaps you recollect me,” said Ralph, looking naiTowly 
at the schoolmaster. 

“You paid me a small account at each of my half-yearly 
visits to town, for some years, I think. Sir,” replied Squeers. 

“ I did,” rejoined Ralph. 

“ For the parents of a boy named Dorker, who unfortu- 
nately — ” 

“ — unfortunately died at Dotheboys Hall,” said Ralph, fin- 
ishing the sentence. 

“I remember very well. Sir,” rejoined Squeers. “Ah! 
Mrs. Squeers, Sir, was as partial to that lad as if he had been 
her own ; the attention. Sir, that was bestowed upon that boy 
in his illness — dry toast and warm tea offered him every 
night and morning when he couldn’t swallow any thing — a 
candle in his bed-room on the very night he died — the best 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


IT 


dictionary sent up for him to lay his head upon. — I don’t re- 
gret it though. It is a pleasant thing to reflect that one did 
one’s duty by him.” 

Ralph smiled as if he meant any thing but smiling, and 
looked around at the strangers present. 

“These are only some pupils of mine,” said Wackford 
S queers, pointing to the little boy on the trunk and the two 
little boys on the floor, who had been staring at each other 
without uttering a word, and writhing their bodies into most 
remarkable contortions, according to the custom of little boys 
when they first become acquainted. “ This gentleman. Sir, is 
a parent who is kind enough to compliment me upon the 
course of education adopted at Dotheboys Hall, which is situ- 
ated, Sir, at the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta 
Bridge, in Yorkshire, where youth are boarded, clothed, book- 
ed, washed, furnished with pocket-money — ” 

“Yes, we know all about that, -Sir,” interrupted Ralph, 
testily. “ It’s in the advertisement.” 

“ You are right, sir ; it is in the advertisement,” replied 
Squeers. 

“And in the matter of fact besides,” interrupted Mr. 
Snawley. “ I feel bound to assure, you Sir, and I am proud to 
have this opportunity of assuring you, that I consider Mr. 
Squeers a gentleman, highly virtuous, exemplary, well-con- 
ducted, and — ” 

“ I make no doubt of it. Sir,” interrupted Ralph, check- 
ing the torrent of recommendation ; “ no doubt of it, at all. 
Suppose we come to business ? ” 

“ With all my heart. Sir,” rejoined Squeers. “ ‘ Never 
postpone business,’ is the very first lesson we instil into our 
commercial pupils. Master Belling, my dear, always remem- 
ber that ; do you hear ? ” 

“ Yes, Sir,” repeated Master Belling. 

“ He recollects what it is, does he ? ” said Ralph. 


18 


DOTHEBOTS HAEL. 


“ Tell the gentleman,” said Squeers. 

“ Never,” repeated Master Belling. 

“Very good,” said Squeers; “go on.” 

“ Never,” repeated Master Belling again. 

“ Very good indeed,” said Squeers. “ Yes.” 

“ P,” suggested Nicholas good naturedly. 

“ Perform — business ! ” said Master Belling. “ Never— 
perform — business ! ” 

“ Very well. Sir,” said Squeers, darting a withering look at 
the culprit. “ You and I will perform a little business on our 
private account, by and by.” 

“ And just now,” said Ralph, “ we had better transact our 
own, perhaps.” 

. “ If you please,” said Squeers. 

“ Well,” resumed Ralph, “ it’s brief enough ; soon broached, 
and I hope easily concluded. You have advertised for an able 
assistant. Sir ? ” 

“ Precisely so,” said Squeers. 

“ And you really want one ? 

“ Certainly,” answered Squeers. 

“ Here he is,” said Ralph. “ My nephew Nicholas, hot 
from school, with every thing he learnt there, fermenting in 
his head, and nothing fermenting in his pocket, is just the 
man you want.” 

“ I am afraid,” said Squeers, perplexed with such an appli- 
cation from a youth of Nicholas’s figure, “I am afraid the 
young man won’t suit me.” 

“ Yes he will,” said Ralph ; “ I know better. Don’t be 
cast down. Sir ; you will be teaching all the young noblemen 
in Dotheboys Hall in less than a week’s time, unless this gen- 
tleman is more obstinate than I take him to be.” 

“ I fear. Sir,” said Nicholas, addressing Mr. Squeers, 
“ that you object to my youth, and my not being a Master of 
Arts?” 


DOTHEBOY& HALL. 


19 


"The absence of a college degree /Van objection,” replied 
Squeers, looking as grave as he could, and considerably puz- 
zled, no less by the contrast between the simplicity of the 
nephew and the worldly manner of the uncle, than by the in- 
comprehensible allusion to the young noblemen under his 
tuition. 

" Look here. Sir,” said Ralph ; " I’ll put this matter in its 
true light in two seconds.” 

" If you’ll have the goodness,” rejoined Squeers. 

" This is a boy, or a youth, or a lad, or a young man, or a 
hobbledehoy, or whatever you like to call him, of eighteen or 
nineteen or thereabouts,” said Ralph. 

" That I see,” observed the schoolmaster. 

" So do I,” said Mr. Snawley, thinking it as well to back 
his new friend occasionally. 

" His father is dead, he is wholly ignorant of the world, 
has no resources whatever, and wants something to do,” said 
Ralph. “ I recommend him to this splendid establishment 
of yours, as an opening which will lead him to fortune, if he 
turns it to proper account. Do you see that } ” 

" Everybody must see that,” replied Squeers, half imitat- 
ing the sneer with which the old gentleman was regarding his 
unconscious relative. 

" I do of course,” said Nicholas eagerly. 

" He does, of course, you observe,” said Ralph, in the 
same dry, hard manner. " If any caprice of temper should 
induce him to cast aside this golden opportunity before he has 
brought it to perfection, I consider myself absolved from ex- 
tending any assistance to his mother and sister. Look at 
him, and think of the use he may be to you in half a dozen 
ways. Now the question is, whether, for some time to come 
at all events, he won’t serve your purpose better than twenty 
of the kind of people you would get under ordinary circum- 
stances. Isn’t that a question for consideration ? ” 


20 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


“Yes, it is,” said Squeers, answering a nod of Ralph’s 
head with a nod of his own. 

“ Good,” rejoined Ralph. “ Let me have two words with 
you.” 

The two words were had apart, and in a couple of minutes 
Mr. Wackford Squeers announced that Mr. Nicholas Nickleby 
was from that moment thoroughly nominated to, and installed 
in, the office of first assistant-master at Dotheboys Hall. 

Your uncle’s recommendation has done it, Mr. Nickle- 
by,” said Wackford Squeers. 

Nicholas, overjoyed at his success, shook his Uncle’s hand 
warmly, and could have worshipped Squeers upon the spot. 

“ He is an odd-looking man,” thought Nicholas. “ What 
of that ? Porson was an odd-looking man, and so was Doctor 
Johnson ; all these bookworms are.”' 

“ At eight o’clock to-morrow morning, Mr. Nickleby,” said 
Squeers, “ the coach starts. You must be here at a quarter 
before, as we take these boys with us.” 

“ Certainly, Sir,” said Nicholas. 

“ And your fare down, I have paid,” growled Ralph. “ So 
you’ll have nothing to do but to keep yourself warm.” 

Here was another instance of his uncle’s generosity. Nicho- 
las felt his unexpected kindness so much, that he could scarcely 
find words to thank him ; indeed, he had not found half 
enough, when they took leave of the schoolmaster and emerged 
from the Saracen’s Head gateway. 

Regarding with no small curiosity and interest all the 
busy preparations for the coming day which every street and 
almost every house displayed; and thinking now and then 
that it seemed rather hard that so many people of all ranks 
and stations could earn a livelihood in London, and that he 
should be compelled to journey so far in search of one, Nicho- 
las speedily arrived at the Saracen’s Head, Snow Hill. Hav- 


DOTHEBOTS HALL. 


21 


ing dismissed his attendant, and seen the box safely deposited 
•in the coach-office, he looked into the coffee-room in search 
of Mr. Squeers. 

He found that learned gentleman sitting at breakfast, with 
the three little boys before noticed, and two others who had 
turned up by some lucky chance since the interview of the 
previous day, ranged in a row on the opposite seat. Mr. 
Squeers had before him a small measure of coffee, a plate of 
hot toast, and a cold round of beef ; but he was at that mo- 
ment intent on preparing breakfast for the little boys. 

“ This is twopenn’orth of milk, is it, waiter ? ” said Mr. 
Squeers, looking down into a large blue mug, and slanting it 
gently so as to get an accurate view of the quantity of fluid 
contained in it. 

“ That’s twopenn’orth. Sir,” replied the waiter. 

“ What a rare article milk is, to be sure, in London ? ” said 
Mr. Squeers with a sigh. “ Just fill that mug up with luke- 
warm water, William, will you ? ” 

“ To the wery top, Sir ? ” inquired the waiter. “ Why, the 
milk will be drownded.” 

Never you mind that,” replied Mr. Squeers. “ Serve it 
right for being so dear. You ordered that thick bread and 
butter for three, did you ? ” 

“ Coming directly. Sir.” 

“ You needn’t hurry yourself,” said Squeers ; “ there’s 
plenty of time. Conquer your passions, boys, and don’t be 
eager after vittles.” As he uttered this moral precept, Mr. . 
Squeers took a large bite out of the cold beef, and recognized ? 
Nicholas. 

“ Sit down, Mr. Nickleby,” said Squeers. “ Here we are, 
a breakfasting you see.” 

Nicholas did see that anybody was breakfasting except 
Mr. Squeers ; but he bowed with all becoming reverence, and 
looked as cheerful as he could. 


22 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


“ Oh ! that’s the milk and water, is it, William ? ” said 
Squeers. “Very good; don’t forget the bread and blitter 
presently.” 

At this fresh mention of the bread and butter, the five 
little boys looked very eager, and followed the waiter out 
with their eyes ; meanwhile Mr. Squeers tasted the milk and 
water. 

“ Ah ! ” said that gentleman, smacking his lips, “ here’s 
richness ! Think of the many beggars and orphans in the 
streets that would be glad of this, little boys. A shocking 
thing hunger is, isn’t it, Mr. Nickleby ? ” 

“ Very shocking, Sir,” said Nicholas. 

“ When 1 say number one,” pursued Mr. Squeers, putting 
the mug before the children, “ the boy on the left hand nearest 
the window may take a drink ; and when I say number two 
the boy next to him will go in, and so till we come to number 
five, which is the last boy. Are you ready ? ” 

“ Yes, sir,” cried all the little boys with great eagerness. 

“That’s right,” said Squeers, calmly getting on with his 
breakfast ; keep ready till I tell you to begin. Subdue your 
appetites, my dears, and you’ve conquered human natur. This 
is the way we inculcate strength of mind, Mr. Nickleby,” said 
the schoolmaster, turning to Nicholas, and speaking with his 
mouth very full of beef and toast. 

Nicholas murmured something — he knew not what — in 
reply, and the little boys dividing their gaze between the mug, 
the bread and butter (which had by this time arrived), and 
every morsel which Mr. Squeers took into his mouth, remained 
with strained eyes in torments of expectation. 

“ Thank God for a good breakfast,” said Squeers when he 
had finished. “ Number one may take a drink."' 

Number one seized the mug ravenously, and had just drunk 
enough to make him wish for more, when Mr. Squeers gave 
the signal for number two, who gave up at the same interest- 


DOTHEBOTS HALL. 


^23 

ing moment to number three, and the process was repeated 
till the milk and water terminated with number five. 

“ And now,” said the schoolmaster, dividing the bread and 
butter for three into as many portions as there were children, 
“ you had better look sharp w'ith your breakfast, for the horn 
will blow in a minute or two, and then every boy leaves off.” 

Permission being thus given to fall to, the boys began to 
eat voraciously, and in desperate haste, while the schoolmaster, 
who was in high good-humor, picked his teeth wuth a fork, and 
looked smilingly on. In a very short time the horn was heard. 

“ I thought it wouldn’t be long,” said Squeers, jumping up 
and producing a little basket from under the seat ; “ put what 
you haven’t had time to eat, in here, boys ! You’ll want it 
on the road ! ” 

Nicholas was considerably startled by these very economi- 
cal arrangements, but he had no time to reflect upon them, 
for the little boys had to be got up to the. top of the coach, 
and their boxes had to be brought out and put in, and Mr. 
Squeers’s luggage was to be seen carefully deposited in the 
boot, and all these offices were in his department. 

* ******* * 

A minute’s bustle, a banging of the coach doors, a sw^ay- 
ing of the vehicle to one side, as the heavy coachman, and 
still heavier guard, climbed into their seats ; a cry of all right, a 
few notes from the horn, a hasty glance of two sorrowful faces 
below- and the hard features of Mr. Ralph Nickleby — and the 
coach was gone too, and rattling over the stones of Smithfield. 

The little boys’ legs being too short to admit of their feet 
resting upon any thing as they sat, and the little boys’ bodies 
being consequently in imminent hazard of being jerked off the 
coach, Nicholas had enough to do to hold them on : and be- 
tween the manual exertion and the mental anxiety attendant 
upon this task, he was not a little relieved when the coach 
stopped at the Peacock at Islington. He was still more re- 


24 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


lieved when a hearty-looking gendeman, with a very good- 
humored face, and a very fresh color, got up behind and pro- 
posed to take the other corner of the seat. 

“ If we put some of these youngsters in the middle,” said 
the new-comer, “ they’ll be safer in case of their going to sleep ; 
eh.?” 

‘‘ If you’ll have the goodness. Sir,” replied Squeers, “ that’ll 
be the very thing. Mr. Nickleby, take three of them boys be- 
tween you and the gentleman. Belling and the youngest Snaw- 
ley can sit between me and the guard. Three children,” said 
Squeers, explaining to the stranger, “books as two.” 

“ I have not the least objection I am sure,” said the fresh- 
colored gentleman ; “ I have a brother who wouldn’t object to 
book his six children as two at any butcher’s or baker’s in the 
kingdom, I dare say. Far from it.” 

“ Six children, Sk ! ” exclaimed Squeers. 

“ Yes, and all boys,” replied the stranger. 

“ Mr. Nickleby ” said Squeers, in great haste, “ catch hold 
of that basket. Let me give you a card, Sir, of an establish- 
ment where those six boys can be brought up in an enlighten- 
ed, liberal, and moral manner, with no mistake at all about it, 
for twenty guineas a year each — twenty guineas. Sir ; or I’d 
take all the boys together upon an average right through, and 
say a hundred pound a year for the lot.” 

“ Oh ! ” said the gentleman, glancing at the card, “ you are 
the Mr. Squeers mentioned here, I presume ? ” 

“Yes I am, Sir,” replied the worthy pedagogue ; “ Mr. 
Wackford Squeers is my name, and I’m very far from being 
ashamed of it. These are some of my boys. Sir ; that’s one 
of my assistants. Sir — Mr. Nickleby, a gentleman’s son, and a 
good scholar, mathematical, classical, and commercial. We 
don’t do things by halves at our shop. All manner of learn- 
ing my boys take down. Sir : the expense is never thought of, 
and they get a paternal treatment and washing in.” 


DOTHEBOTS HALL. 


25 


“ Upon my word,” said the gentleman, glancing at Nicho- 
las with a half smile, and a more than half expression of sur- 
prise, “ these are advantages indeed.” 

“ You may say that. Sir,” rejoined Squeers, thrusting his 
hands into his great-coat pockets. “ The most unexception- 
able references are given and required. I wouldn’t take a ref- 
erence with any boy that was not responsible for the payment 
of five pound five a quarter, no, not if you went down on your 
knees, and asked me with the tears running down your face to 
do it.” 

“ Highly considerate,” said the passenger. 

“ It’s my great aim and end to be considerate. Sir, rejoin- 
ed Squeers. “ Snawley, junior, if you don’t leave off chatter- 
ing your teeth, and shaking with the cold, I’ll warm you with 
a severe thrashing in about half a minute’s time.” 

“ Sit fast here, gentlemen,” said the guard as he clamber- 
ed up. 

All right behind there, Dick ? ” cried the coachman. 

“ All right,” was the reply. “ Off she goes.” And off she 
did go, — if coaches be feminine — amidst a loud flourish from 
the guard’s horn, and the calm approval of all the judges of 
coaches and coach-horses congregated at the Peacock, but 
more especially of the helpers, who stood with the cloths over 
their arms, watching the coach till it disappeared, and then 
lounged admiringly stablewards, bestowing various gruff en- 
comiums on the beauty of the turn-out. 

The weather was intensely and bitterly cold ; a great deal 
of snow fell from time to time, and the wind was intolerably 
keen. Mr. Squeers got down at almost every stage — to 
stretch his legs as he said, and as he always came back from 
such excursions with a very red nose, and composed himself to 
sleep directly, there is reason to suppose that he derived great 
benefit from the process. The little pupils having been stim- 
ulated with the remains of their breakfast, and further invigo- 


2 


26 


DOTHEBOYS- HALL. 


rated by sundry small sups of a curious cordial carried by Mr. 
S queers, which tasted very like toast and water put into a 
brandy bottle by mistake, went to sleep, woke, shivered and 
cried, as their feelings prompted. Nicholas and the good-tem- 
pered man found so many things to talk about, that between 
conversing together, and cheering up the boys, the time pass- 
ed with them as rapidly as it could, under such adverse cir- 
cumstances. 

So the day wore on. At Eton Slocomb there was a good 
coach dinner, of which the box, the four front outsides, the one 
inside, Nicholas, the good-tempered man, and Mr. Squeers, 
partook ; while the five little boys were put to thaw by the 
fire, and regaled with sandwiches. A stage or two further on, 
the lamps were lighted, and a great to-do occasioned by the 
taking up at a road-side inn of a very. fastidious lady with an 
infinite variety of cloaks and small parcels, who loudly lament- 
ed for the behoof of the outsides the non-arrival of her own 
carriage which was to have taken her on, and made the guard 
solemnly promise to stop every green chariot he saw coming ; 
which, as it was a dark night and he was sitting with his face 
the other way, that officer undertook, with many fervent assev- 
erations, to do. Lastly, the fastidious lady, finding there was 
a solitary gentleman inside, had a small lamp lighted which 
she carried in her reticule ; and being after much trouble shut 
in, the horses were put into a brisk canter, and the coach was 
once more in rapid motion. 

The night and the snow came on together, and dismal 
enough they were. There was no sound to be heard but the 
howling of the wind ; for the noise of the wheels and the tread 
of the horses’ feet were rendered inaudible by the thick coat- 
ing of snow which covered the earth, and was fast increasing 
every moment. The streets of Stamford were deserted as they 
passed through the town, and its old churches rose frowning 
and dark from the whitened ground. Twenty miles further on, 


DOTHEBOYa HALL. 


27 


two of the front outside passengers wisely availing themselves 
of their arrival at one of the best inns in England, turned in 
for the night at the George at Grantham. The remainder 
wrapped themselves more closely in their coats and cloaks, 
and leaving the light and warmth of the town behind them, 
pillowed themselves against the luggage, and prepared, with 
many half-suppressed moans, again to encounter the piercing 
blast which swept across the open country. 

********* 
Nicholas fell asleep towards morning, and when he awoke 
found, with great regret, that during his nap both the Baron 
of Grogzwig and the gray-haired gentleman had got down and 
were gone. The day dragged on uncomfortably enough, and 
about six o’clock that night he and Mr. Squeers, and the little 
boys, and their united luggage, were all put down together at 
the George and New Inn, Greta Bridge. 


28 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


CHAPTER II. 


R. SQUEERS being safely landed, left Nicholas and 



IVX the boys standing with the luggage in the road, to 
amuse themselves by looking at the coach as it changed horses, 
while he ran into the tavern and went through the leg-stretch- 
ing process at the bar. After some minutes he returned with 
his legs thoroughly stretched, if the hue of his nose and a short 
hiccup afforded any criterion ; and at the same time there came 
out of the yard a rusty pony-chaise and a cart, driven by two 
laboring men. 

“ Put the boys and the boxes into the cart,” said Squeers, 
rubbing his hands ; “ and this young man and me will go on 
in the chaise. Get in, Nickleby.” 

Nicholas obeyed. Mr. Squeers with some difficulty induc- 
ing the pony to obey also, they started off, leaving the cart- 
load of infant misery to follow at leisure. 

“ Are you cold, Nickleby ? ” inquired Squeers, after they 
had travelled some distance in silence. 

“ Rather, Sir, I must say.” 

“ Well, I don’t find fault with that,” said Squeers : “ it’s a 
long journey this weather.” 

“ Is it much farther to Dotheboys Hall, Sir ? ” asked Nich- 
olas. 

“ About three mile from here,” replied Squeers. ** But you 
needn’t call it a Hall down here.” 

Nicholas coughed, as if he would like to know why. 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


29 


‘‘The fact is, it ain’t a Hall,” observed Squeers dryly. 

“ Oh, indeed ! ” said Nicholas, whom this piece of intelli- 
gence much astonished. 

“No,”* replied Squeers. “We call it a Hall up in Lon> 
don, because it sounds better, but they don’t know it by that 
name in these parts. A man may call his house an island if 
he likes ; there’s no act of Parliament against that, I believe ? ” 

“ I believe not. Sir,” rejoined Nicholas. 

Squeers eyed his companion slyly, at the conclusion of this 
little dialogue, and finding that he had grown thoughtful and 
appeared in nowise disposed to volunteer any observations, 
contented himself with lashing the pony until they reached 
their journey’s end. 

“Jump out,” said Squeers. “Hallo there! come and put 
this horse up. Be quick, will you ! ” 

While the schoolmaster was uttering these and other impa- 
tient cries, Nicholas had time to observe that the school was a 
long, cold-looking house, one story high, with a few straggling 
out-buildings behind, and a barn and stable adjoining. After 
the lapse of a minute or two, the noise of somebody unlocking 
the yard-gate was heard, and presently a tall lean boy, with a 
lantern in his hand, issued forth. 

“ Is that you, Smike ? ” cried Squeers. 

“ Yes, Sir,” replied the boy. 

“ Then why the devil didn’t you come before ? ” 

“ Please, Sir, I fell asleep over the fire,” answered Smike, 
with humility. 

“ Fire ! what fire ? Where’s there a fire ? ” demanded the 
schoolmaster, sharply. 

“ Only in the kitchen, Sir,” replied the boy. “ Missus said 
as I was sitting up, I might go in there for a warm.” 

“ Your Missus is a fool,” retorted Squeers. “ You’d have 
been a deuced deal more wakeful in the cold. I’ll engage.” 

By this time Mr. Squeers had dismounted ; and after order- 


D0THEB0Y3 HALL. 


sa 

ing the hoy to see to the pony, and to take care that he hadn’t 
any more corn that night, he told Nicholas to wait at the front 
door a minute while he went round and let him in. 

A host of unpleasant misgivings, which had been crowd- 
ing upon Nicholas during the whole journey, thronged into 
his mind with redoubled force when he was left alone. His 
great distance from home and the impossibility of reaching 
it except on foot, should he feel ever so anxious to return, 
presented itself to him in most alarming colors ; and as 
he looked up at the dreary house and dark windows, and 
upon the wild country round covered with snow, he felt a 
depression of heart and spirit which he had never experienced 
before. 

“ Now then,” cried Squeers, poking his head out at the 
front door. Where are you, Nickleby ? ” 

“ Here, Sir,” replied Nicholas. 

“ Come in then,” said Squeers, “ the wind blows in at this 
door fit to knock a man off his legs.” 

Nicholas sighed and hurried in. Mr. Squeers having bolt- 
ed the door to keep it shut, ushered him into a small parlor 
scantily furnished with a few chairs, a yellow map hung against 
the wall, and a couple of tables, one of which bore some prep- 
arations for supper ; while on the other, a tutor’s assistant, a 
Murray’s grammar, half a dozen cards of terms, and a worn 
letter directed to Wackford Squeers, Esquire, were arranged 
in picturesque confusion. 

They had not been in this apartment a couple of minutes 
when a female bounced into the room, and seizing Mr. Squeers 
by the throat gave him two loud kisses, one close after the 
other, like a postman’s knock. The lady, who was of a large 
raw-boned figure, was about half a head taller than Mr. Squeers, 
and was dressed in a dimity night jacket with her hair in pa- 
pers ; she had also a dirty night-cap on, relieved by a yellow 
cotton handkerchief which tied it under the chin. 


D0THEB0T8 HALL. 


31 


** How is my Squeery ? ” said this lady in a playful man- 
ner, and a very hoarse voice. 

“Quite well, my love,” replied Squeers. “How’s tlie 
cows ? ” 

“ All right, every one of ’em,” answered the lady. 

“ And the pigs ? ” said Squeers. 

“ As well as they were when you went away.” 

“ Come ; that’s a blessing,” said Squeers, pulling off his 
great-coat “ The boys are all as they were, I suppose ? ” 

“Oh, yes, they’re w^ell enough,” replied Mrs. Squeers 
snappishly. “ That young Pitcher’s had a fever.” 

“ No! ” exclaimed Squeers. “ Damn that boy, he’s always 
at something of that sort” 

“ Never was such a boy, I do believe,” said Mrs. Squeers ; 
“ whatever he has is always catching, too. I say it’s obstinacy, 
and nothing shall ever convince me that it isn’t I’d beat it 
out of him, and I told you that six months ago.” 

“ So you did, my love,” rejoined Squeers. “ We’ll try 
what can be done.” 

Pending these little endearments, Nicholas had stood awk- 
wardly enough in the middle of the room, not very well know- 
ing whether he was expected to retire into the passage, or to 
remain where he was. He was now relieved from his perplex- 
ity by Mr. Squeers. 

“This is the new young man, my dear,” said that gentleman. 

“ Oh,” replied Mrs. Squeers, nodding her head at Nicholas, 
and eyeing him coldly from top to toe. 

“ He’ll take a meal with us to-night,” said Squeers, “ and 
go among the boys to-morrow morning You can give him a 
shake down here, to-night, can’t you ? ” 

“ We must manage it somehow,” replied the lady. “You 
don’t much mind how you sleep, I suppose, Sir ? ” 

“ No, indeed,” replied Nicholas, “I am not particular.” 

“That’s lucky,” said Mrs. Squeers. And as' the lady’s 


32 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


humor was considered to be chiefly in retort, Mr. Squeers 
laughed heartily, and seemed to expect that Nicholas should 
do the same. 

After some further conversation between the master and 
mistress relative to the success of Mr. Squeers’s trip, and the 
people who had paid, and the people who had made default 
in payment, a young servant-girl brought in a Yorkshire pie 
and some cold beef, which being set upon the table, the boy 
Smike approached with a jug of ale. 

Mr. Squeers was emptying his great-coat pockets of let- 
ters to different boys, and other small documents, which he 
had brought down in them. The boy glanced, with an anx- 
ious and timid expression, at the papers, as if with a sickly 
hope that one among them might relate to him. The look 
was a very painful one, and went to Nicholas’s heart at once ; 
for it told a long and very sad history. 

It induced him to consider the boy more attentively, and 
he was surprised to observe the extraordinary mixture of gar- 
ments which formed his dress. Although he could not have 
been less than eighteen or nineteen years old, and was tall for 
that age, he wore a skeleton suit, such as is usually put upon 
very little boys and which, though most absurdly short in the 
arms and legs, was quite wide enough for his attenuated frame. 
In order that the lower part of his legs might be in perfect keep- 
ing with this singular dress, he had a very large pair of boots 
originally made for tops, which might have been once worn by 
some stout farmer, but were now too patched and tattered for 
a beggar. God knows how long he had been there, but he still 
wore the same linen which he had first taken down ; for round 
his neck was a tattered child’s frill, only half concealed by a 
coarse man’s neckerchief. He was lame ; and as he feigned 
to be busy in arranging the table, glanced at the letters with a 
look so keen, and yet so dispirited and hopeless, that Nicholas 
could hardly bear to watch him. 


33 


DOTHEBOTS HALL. 

“ AVliat are you bothering about there, Smike ? ” cried Mrs. 
Squeers ; “ let the things alone, can’t you.” 

“ Eh ! ” said Squeers, looking up. “ Oh ! it’s you, is it ? ” 

“Yes, Sir,” replied the youth, pressing his hands together, 
as though to control by force the nervous wandering of his fin- 
gers. “ Is there — ” 

“ Well ! ” said Squeers. 

“ Have you — did anybody — has nothing been heard — 
about me?” 

“ Devil a bit,” replied Squeers testily. 

The lad withdrew his eyes, and putting his hand to his face 
moved towards the door. 

“ Not a word,” resumed Squeers, “ and never will be. Now, 
this is a pretty sort of thing isn’t it, that you should have been 
left here all these years and no money paid after the first six 
— nor no notice taken, nor no clue to be got who you belong 
to ? It’s a pretty sort of thing that I should have to feed a 
great fellow like you, and never hope to get one penny for it, 
isn’t it?” 

The boy put his hand to his head as if he were making an 
effort to recollect something, and then looking vacantly at his 
questioner, gradually broke into a smile and limped away. 

“ I’ll tell you what, Squeers,” remarked his wife as the door 
closed, “ I think that young chap’s turning silly.” 

“ I hope not,” said the schoolmaster ; “ for he’s a handy fel- 
low out of doors, and worth his meat and drink any way. I 
should think he’d have wit enough for us though, if he was. 
But come ; let’s have supper, for I’m hungry and tired, and 
want to get to bed.” 

This reminder brought in an exclusive steak for Mr. Squeers, 
who speedily proceeded to do it ample justice. Nicholas drew 
up his chair, but his appetite was effectually taken away. 

“ How is the steak, Squeers ? ” said Mrs. S. 

“ Tender as a lamb,” replied Squeers. 


34 


DOTHEBOTS HALL. 


“ Have a bit ? ” 

“ 1 couldn’t eat a morsel,” replied his wife. ‘^What’ll the 
young man take, my dear ? ” 

“ Whatever he likes that’s present,” rejoined Squeers, in a 
most unusual burst of generosity. 

“What do you say, Mr. Knuckleboy?” inquired Mrs. 
Squeers. 

“ I’ll take a little of the pie, if you please,” replied Nicho- 
las — “ a very little, for I’m not hungry.” 

“ Well, it’s a pity to cut the pie, if you’re not hungry, isn’t 
it ? ” said Mrs. Squeers. “ Will you try a piece of the beef ? ” 

“Whatever you please,” replied Nicholas abstractedly ; “it’s 
all the same to me.” 

Mrs. Squeers looked vastly gracious on receiving this reply ; 
and nodding to Squeers, as much as to say that she was glad 
to find the young man knew his station, assisted Nicholas to a 
slice of meat with her own fair hands. 

“ Ale, Squeery ? ” inquired the lady, winking and frowning 
to give him to understand that the question propounded was 
whether Nicholas should have ale, and not whether he (Squeers) 
would take any. 

“Certainly,” said Squeers, re-telegraphing in the same 
manner. “ A glassful.” 

So Nicholas had a glassful, and being occupied with his 
own reflections, drank it in happy innocence of all the fore- 
gone proceedings. 

“ Uncommon juicy steak that,” said Squeers, as he laid down 
his knife and fork, after plying it, in silence, for some time. 

“ It’s prime meat,” rejoined his lady. 

“ I bought a good large piece of it myself on purpose for — ” 

“For what ! ’* exclaimed Squeers, hastily. “ Not for the — ” 

“ No, no ; not for them,” rejoined Mrs. Squeers ; “on pur- 
pose for you against you came home. Lor ! you didn’t think 
I could have made such a mistake as that ! ” 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


85 

“ Upon my word, my dear, I didn’t know what you were 
going to say,” said Squeers, who had turned very pale. 

“ You needn’t make yourself uncomfortable,” remarked 
his wife, laughing heartily. “ To think that I should be such 
a noddy ! Well ! 

This part of the conversation was rather unintelligible ; 
but popular rumor in the neighborhood asserted that Mr. 
Squeers, being amiably opposed to cruelty to animals, not un- 
•frequently purchased for boy consumption the bodies of horned 
cattle who had died a natural death, and possibly he was ap- 
prehensive of having unintentionally devoured some choice 
morsel intended for the young gentlemen. 

* Supper being over, and removed by a small servant-girl 
with a hungry" eye, Mrs. Squeers retired to lock it up, and also 
to take into safe custody the clothes of the five boys who 
had just arrived, and who were half-way up the troublesome 
flight of steps which leads to death’s door, in consequence of 
exposure to the cold. They were then regaled with a light 
supper of porridge, and stowed away side by side in a small 
bedstead, to warm each other and dream of a substantial meal 
with something hot after it if their fancy set that way, which it 
is not at all improbable they did. 

Mr. Squeers treated himself to a stiff tumbler of brandy 
and water, made on the liberal half and half principle, allowing 
for the dissolution of the sugar ; and his amiable helpmate 
miffed Nicholas the ghost of a small glassful of the same com- 
pound. This done, Mr. and Mrs. Squeers drew close up to the 
fire, and sitting with their feet on the fender talked confiden- 
tially in whispers ; while Nicholas, taking up the tutor’s assistant, 
read the interesting legends in the miscellaneous questions, and 
all the figures into the bargain, with as much thought or con- 
sciousness of what he was doing, as if he had been in a mag- 
netic slumber. 

At length Mr. Squeers yawned fearfully, and opined that it 


36 


DOTHEBOTS HALL. 


was high time to go to bed ; upon which signal Mrs. Sqiieers and 
the girl dragged in a small straw mattress and a couple of blan- 
kets, and arranged them into a couch for Nicholas. 

“ We’ll put you into your regular bedroom to-morrow, 
Nickleby, said Squeers. “ Let me see; who sleeps in Brooks’s 
bed, my dear ? ” 

“ In Brooks’s,” said Mrs. Squeers, pondering. “ There’s 
Jennings, little Bolder, Graymarsh, and what’s his name.” 

“ So there are,” rejoined Squeers. “ Yes, Brooks is full.” 

“ Full ! ” thought Nicholas. “ I should think he was.” 

“There’s a place somewhere, I know,” said Squeers; 
“ but I can’t at this moment call to mind where it is. However, 
we’ll have that all settled to-morrow. Good-night, Nickleby. 
Seven o’clock in the morning, mind.” 

“ I shall be ready. Sir,” replied Nicholas. “ Good-night.” 

“ I’ll come in myself and show you where the well is,” said 
Squeers. “ You’ll always find a little bit of soap in the kitchen 
window ; that belongs to you.” 

Nicholas opened his eyes, but not his mouth ; and Squeers 
was again going away, when he once more turned back. 

“ I don’t know, I am sure,” he said, “ whose towel to put 
you on ; but if you’ll make shift with something to-morrow 
morning, Mrs. Squeers will arrange that, in the course of the 
day. My dear, don’t forget.” 

“ I’ll take care,” replied Mrs. Squeers ; “ and mind you take 
care young man, and get first wash. The teacher ought always 
to have it ; but they get the better of him if they can.” 

Mr. Squeers then nudged Mrs. Squeers to bring away the 
brandy bottle, lest Nicholas should help himself in the night ; 
and the lady having seized it with great precipitation, they re- 
tired together. 

Nicholas, being left alone, took half a dozen turns up and 
down the room in a condition of much agitation and excite- 
ment ; but, growing gradually calmer, sat himself down in a 


DOTHEBOTS HALL. 


37 


chair, and mentally resolved that, come what might, ho would 
endeavor, for a time, to bear whatever wretchedness might be in 
store for him, and that remembering the helplessness of his moth- 
er and sister, he would give his uncle no plea for deserting them 
in their need. Good resolutions seldom fail of producing some 
good effect in the mind from which they spring. He grew 
less desponding, and — so sanguine and buoyant is youth — even 
hoped that affairs at Dotheboys Hall might yet prove better 
than they promised. 


38 


DOTHEBOYS 'HALL. 


CHAPTER HI 


RIDE of two hundred and odd miles in severe weather, 



is one of the best softeners of a hard bed that ingenuity 
can devise. Perhaps it is even a sweetener of dreams, for 
those which hovered over the rough couch of Nicholas, and 
whispered their airy nothings in his ear, were of an agreeable 
and happy kind. He was making his fortune very fast indeed, 
when the faint glimmer of an expiring candle shone before his 
eyes, and a voice he had no difficulty in recognizing as part 
and parcel of Mr. Squeers, admonished him that it was time 


to rise. 


“ Past seven, Nickleby,” said Mr. Squeers. 

“Has morning come already? ” asked Nicholas, sitting up 
in bed. 

“Ah! that has it,” replied Squeers, “and ready iced too. 
Now, Nickleby, come ; tumble up, will you ? ” 

Nicholas needed no further admonition, but “tumbled up ” 
at once, and proceeded to dress himself by the light of the taper 
which Mr. Squeers carried in his hand. 

“ Here’s a pretty go,” said that gentleman ; “ the pump’s 
froze.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Nicholas, not much interested in the in- 
telligence. 

“Yes,” replied Squeers. “You can’t wash yourself this 
morning.” 

“ Not wash myself! ” exclaimed Nicholas. 


DOTHEBGYS HALLi 39 

“ No, not a bit of it,” rejoined Squeers tartly. “ So you 
must be content with giving yourself a dry polish till we break 
the ice in the well, and can get a bucketful out for the boys. 
Don’t stand staring at me, but do look sharp, will you ? ” 

Oifering no further observation, Nicholas huddled on his 
clothes, and Squeers meanwhile opened the shutters and blew 
the candle out, when the voice of his amiable consort was 
heard in the passage demanding admittance. 

“Come in, my love,” said Squeers. 

Mrs. Squeers came in, still habited in the primitive night- 
jacket which had displayed the symmetry of her figure on the 
previous night, and further ornamented with a beaver bonnet of 
some antiquity, which she wore with much ease and lightness 
upon the top of the nightcap before mentioned. 

“ Drat the things,” said the lady, opening the cupboard ; “ I 
can’t find the school spoon anywhere.” 

“Never mind it, my dear,” observed Squeers in a soothing 
manner ; “ it’s of no consequence.” 

“No consequence, why how you talk ! ” retorted Mrs. 
Squeers sharply ; “ isn’t it brimstone morning ? ” 

“ I forgot, my dear,” rejoined Squeers ; “ yes, it certainly 
is. We purify the boys’ bloods now and then, Nickleby.” 

“ Purify fiddlesticks’ ends,” said his lady. “ Don’t think, 
young man, that we go to the expense of flower of brimstone 
and molasses just to purify them ; because if you think we carry 
on the business in that way, you’ll find yourself mistaken, and so 
I tell you plainly.” 

“ My dear,” said Squeers frowning. “ Hem ! ” 

“ Oh, nonsense !” rejoined Mrs. Squeers. “ If the young 
man comes to be a teacher here, let him understand at once 
that we don’t want any foolery about the boys. They have 
the brimstone and treacle, partly because if they hadn’t some- 
thing or other in the way of medicine they’d be always ailing 
and giving a world of trouble, and partly because it spoils their 


40 


DOTHEBOTS HALL. 


appetites and comes cheaper than breakfast and. dinner. So it 
does them good and us good at the same time, and that’s fair 
enough I’m sure.” 

• Having given this explanation, Mrs. Squeers put her head 
into the closet and instituted a stricter search after the spoon, 
in which Mr. Squeers assisted. A few words passed between 
them while they were thus engaged, but as their voices were 
partially stifled by the cupboard, all that Nicholas could dis- 
tinguish was, that Mr. Squeers said what Mrs. Squeers had 
said was injudicious, and that Mrs. Squeers said what Mr. 
Squeers said was “ stuff.” 

A vast deal of searching and rummaging succeeded, and it 
proving fruitless, Smike was called in, and pushed by Mrs. 
Squeers and boxed by Mr. Squeers, which course of treat- 
ment brightening his intellects, enabled him to suggest that pos- 
sibly Mrs. Squeers might have the spoon in her pocket, as in- 
deed turned out to be the case. As Mrs. Squeers had pre- 
viously protested, however, that she was quite certain she had 
not got it, Smike received another box on the ear for presuming 
to contradict his mistress, together with a promise of a sound 
thrashing if he were not more respectful in future ; so that he 
took nothing very advantageous by his motion. 

“ A most invaluable woman, that, Nickleby,” said Squeers, 
when his consort had hurried away, pushing the drudge be- 
fore her. 

“ Indeed, Sir ! ” observed Nicholas. 

“ I don’t know her equal,” said Squeers ; “do not know her 
equal. That woman, Nickleby, is always the same — always 
the same bustling, lively, active, saving creetur that you see 
her now.” 

Nicholas sighed Involuntarily at the thought of the agreeable 
domestic prospect thus opened to him ; but Squeers was, for- 
tunately, too much occupied with his own reflections to per- 
ceive it. 


DOTIIEBOTS HALL. 


41 


“ It’s my way to say, when I am up in London,” continued 
Squeers, “ that to them boys she is a mother. But she is more 
than a mother to them ; ten times more. She does things for 
them boys, Nickleby, that I don’t believe half the mothers go- 
ing would do for their own sons.” 

“ I should think they would not. Sir,” answered Nicholas. 

Now, the fact was, that both Mr. and Mrs. Squeers viewed 
the boys in the light of their proper and natural enemies ; or, in 
other words, they held and considered that their business and 
profession was to get as much from every boy as could by 
possibility be screwed out of him. On this point they were 
both agreed, and behaved in unison accordingly. The only 
difference between them was, that Mrs. Squeers waged war 
against the enemy openly and fearlessly, and that Squeers cov- 
ered his rascality, even at home, with a spice of his habitual de- 
ceit ; as if he really had a notion of some day or other being able 
to take himself in, and persuade his own mind that he was a 
very good fellow. 

“ But come,” said Squeers, interrup'ing the progress of 
some thoughts to this effect in the mind of his usher, “ let’s go 
into the school-room ; and lend me a hand with my school coat, 
will you ? ” 

Nicholas assisted his master to put on an old fustian shoot- 
ing jacket, which he took down from a peg in the passage ; and 
Squeers, arming himself with his cane, led the way across a 
yard, to a door in the rear of the house. 

“ There,” said the schoolmaster as they stepped in together ; 
“ this is our shop, Nickleby ! ” 

It was such a crowded scene, and there were so many objects 
to attract attention, that, at first, Nicholas stared about him 
really without seeing any thing at all. By degrees, however, 
the place resolved itself into a bare and dirty room, with a 
couple of windows, whereof a tenth part might be of glass, the 
remainder being stopped up with old copybooks and paper. 


42 


DOrnEBOYS HALL. 


There were a couple of long old rickety desks, cut and notched, 
and inked, and damaged in every possible way ; two or three 
forms ; a detached desk for Squeers,and another for his assist- 
ant. The ceiling was supported, like that of a barn, by cross 
beams and rafters ; and the walls were so stained and discol- 
ored, that it was impossible to tell whether they had ever been 
touched with paint or whitewash. 

But the pupils — the young nobleman ! How the last faint 
traces of hope, the remotest glimmering of any good to be de- 
rived from his efforts in this den, faded from the mind of Nicho- 
las as he looked in dismay around ! Pale and haggard faces, 
lank and bony figures, children with the countenances of old 
men, deformities with irons upon their limbs, boys of stunted 
growth, and others whose long meagre legs would hardly bear 
their stooping bodies, all crowded on the view together ; there 
were the bleared eye, the harelip, the crooked foot, and every 
ugliness or distortion that told of unnatural aversion conceived 
by parents for their offspring or of young lives which, from the 
earliest dawn of infancy, had been one horrible endurance of 
cruelty and neglect. There were little faces which should have 
been handsome, darkened with the scowl of sullen, dogged suf- 
fering ; there was childhood with the light of its eye quenched, 
its beauty gone, and its helplessness alone remaining ; there 
were vicious-faced boys, brooding, with leaden eyes, like male- 
factors in a jail; and there were young creatures on whom the 
sins of their frail parents had descended, weeping even for the 
mercenary nurses they had known, and lonesome even in their 
loneliness. With every kindly sympathy and affection blasted 
in its birth, with every young and healthy feeling flogged and 
starved down, with evrey revengeful passion that can fester in 
swollen hearts, eating its evil way to their core in silence, what 
an incipient Hell was breeding here ! 

And yet this scene, painful as it was, had its grotesque 
features, which, in a less iuterested observer than Nicholas, 


D0THEB0T8 HALL. 


43 


might have provoked a smile. Mrs. Squeers stood at one of the 
desks, presiding over an immense basin of brimstone and trea. 
cle, of which delicious compound she administered a large instab 
ment to each boy in succession : using for the purpose a com- 
mon wooden spoon, which might have been originally manufac- 
tured for some gigantic top, and which widened every young 
gentleman’s mouth considerably ; they being all obliged, under 
heavy corporal penalties, to take in the whole of the bowl at a 
gasp. In another corner, huddled together for companionship, 
were the little boys who had arrived on the preceding night, three 
of them in very large leather breeches, and two in old trousers, a 
something tighter fit than drawers are usually worn ; at no 
great distance from them was seated the juvenile son and heir 
of Mr. Squeers — a striking likeness of his father — kicking with 
great vigor under the hands of Smike, who was fitting upon 
him a pair of new boots that bore a most suspicious resem- 
blance to those which the least of the little boys had worn on the 
journey down, as the little boy himself seemed to think, for he 
was regarding the appropriation with a look of most rueful 
amazement. Besides these, there was a long row of boys 
waiting, with countenances of no pleasant anticipation, to be 
treacled, and another file who had just escaped from the inflic- 
tion, making a variety of wry mouths indicative of any thing 
but satisfaction. The whole were attired in such motley, ill- 
assorted, extraordinary garments, as would have been irresisti- 
bly ridiculous, but for the foul appearance of dirt, disorder, and 
disease, with which they were associated. 

Now,” said Squeers, giving the desk a great rap with his 
cane, which made half the little boys nearly jump out of their 
boots, “ is that physicking over ?” 

“Just over,” said Mrs. Squeers, choking the last boy in her 
hurry, and tapping the crown of his head with the wooden spoon 
to restore him. “ Here, you Smike ; take away now. Look 
sharp I” 


DOTIIEBOTS HAIL. 


44 

Smike shuffled out with the basin, and Mrs. Squeers having 
called up a little boy with a curly head, and wiped her hands 
upon it, hurried out after him into a species of wash-house, 
where there was a small fire and a large kettle, together with 
a number of little wooden bowls which were arranged upon 
a board. 

Into these bowls Mrs. Squeers, assisted by the hungry ser- 
vant, poured a brown composition w'hich looked like diluted 
pincushions without the covers, and was called porridge. A 
minute wedge of brown bread was inserted in each bowl, and 
when they had eaten their porridge by means of the bread, the 
boys eat the bread itself, and had finished their breakfast ; 
whereupon Mr. Squeers said, in a solemn voice, “ For what we 
have received may the Lord make us truly thankful ! ” — and 
went away to his own. 

Nicholas distended his stomach with a bowl of porridge, for 
much the same reason which induces some savages to swallow 
earth — lest they should be inconveniently hungry when there 
is nothing to eat. Having further disposed of a slice of bread 
and butter, allotted to him in virtue of his office, he sat him- 
self down to wait for school-time. 

He could not but observe how silent and sad the boys all 
seemed to be. There was none of the noise and clamor of 
a school- room, none of its boisterous play or hearty mirth. The 
children sat crouching and shivering together, and seemed to 
lack the spirit to move about. The only pupil who evinced 
the slightest tendency towards locomotion or playfulness was 
Master Squeers, and as his chief amusement was to tread upon 
the other boys’ toes in his new boots, his flow of spirits was 
rather disagreeable than otherwise. 

After some half-hour’s delay Mr. Squeers reappeared, and 
the boys took their places and their books, of which latter com- 
modity the average might be about one to eight learners. A 
few minutes having elapsed, during which Mr. Squeers looked 


DOTHEBOTS HALL. 


45 


very profound, as if he had a perfect apprehension of what was 
inside all the books, and could say every word of their contents 
by heart if he only chose to take the trouble, that gentleman 
called up the first class. 

Obedient to this summons there ranged themselves in front 
of the schoolmaster’s desk, half-a-dozen scarecrows, out at knees 
and elbows, one of whom placed a torn and filthy book beneath 
his learned eye. 

“ This is the first class in English spelling and philosophy, 
Nickleby,” said Squeers, beckoning Nicholas to stand beside 
him. “ We’ll get up a Latin one, and hand that over to you. 
Now, then, where’s the first boy ? ” 

“ Please, Sir, he’s cleaning the back parlor window,” said 
the temporary head of the philosophical class. 

“ So he is, to be sure,” rejoined Squeers. “ We go upon 
the practical mode of teaching, Nickleby ; the regular educa- 
tion system. C-l-e-a-n, clean, verb active, to make bright, to 
scour. W-i-n, win, d-e-r, der, winder, a casement. When the 
boy knows this out of book, he goes and does it. It’s just the 
same principle as the use of the globes. Where’s the second 
boy ? ” 

“ Please, Sir, he’s weeding the garden.” replied a small 
voice. 

“To be sure,” said Squeers, by no means disconcerted. 
“So he is. B-o-t, bot, t-i-n, tin, bottin, n-e-y, ney, bottinney, 
noun substantive, a knowledge of plants. When he has learn- 
ed that bottinney means a knowledge of plants, he goes and 
knows ’em. That’s our system, Nickleby : what do you think 
of it?” 

“ It’s a very useful one at any rate,” answered Nicholas, sig- 
nificantly. 

“I believe you,” rejoined Squeers, not remarking the em- 
phasis of his usher. “Third boy, what’s a horse?” 

“ A beast, Sir,” replied the boy. 


46 


nOTHEBOYS HALL. 


So it is,” said Squeers. “Ain’t it, Nickleby?” 

“ I believe there is no doubt of that. Sir,” answered Nich- 
olas. 

“Of course there isn’t,” said Squeers. “A horse is a 
quadruped, and quadruped’s Latin for beast, as everybody 
that’s gone through the grammar knows, or else where’s the 
use of having grammars at all ? ” 

“ Where, indeed ! ” said Nicholas abstractedly. 

“ As you’re perfect in that,” resumed Squeers, turning to 
the boy, “ go and look after my horse, and rub him down well, 
or I’ll rub you down. The rest of the class go and draw water 
up, till somebody tells you to leave off, for it’s washing day to- 
morrow, and they want the coppers filled.” 

So saying, he dismissed the first class to their experiments 
in practical philosophy, and eyed Nicholas with a look, half 
cunning and half doubtful, as if he v/as not altogether certain 
what he might think of him by this time. 

“That’s the way we do it, Nickleby,” he said, after a 
pause. 

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders in a manner that was 
scarcely perceptible, and said he saw it was. 

“ And a very good way it is, too,” said Squeers. “ Now, just 
take them fourteen little boys and hear them some reading, be- 
cause, you know, you must begin to be useful. Idling about 
here, won’t do.” 

Mr. Squeers said this, as if it had suddenly occurred to 
him, either that he must not say too much to his assistant, or 
that his assistant did not say enough to him in praise of the 
establishment. The children were arranged in a semicircle 
round the new master, and he was soon listening to their dull, 
drawling, hesitating recital of those stories of engrossing in- 
terest which are to be found in the more antiquated spelling- 
books. 

In this exciting occupation, the morning lagged heavily on. 


DOTHEBOrS HALL. 


47 


At one o’clock, the boys, having previously had their appetites 
thoroughly taken away by stirabout and potatoes, sat down in 
the kitchen to some hard salt beef, of which Nicholas was gra- 
ciously permitted to take his portion to his own solitary desk, 
to eat it there in peace. After this, there was another hour of 
crouching in the school-room and shivering with cold, and then 
school began again. 

It was Mr. Squeers’s custom to call the boys together, 
and make a sort of report after every half yearly visit to the 
metropolis, regarding the relations and friends he had seen, 
the news he had heard, the letters he had brought down, the 
bills which had been paid, the accounts which had been left 
unpaid, and so forth. This solemn proceeding always took 
place in the afternoon of the day succeeding his return ; per- 
haps, because the boys acquired strength of mind from the sus- 
pense of the morning, or, possibly, because Mr. S queers him- 
self acquired greater sternness and inflexibility from certain 
warm potations in which he was wont to indulge after his early 
dinner. Be this as it may, the boys were recalled from house- 
window, garden, stable, and cow-yard, and the school were as- 
sembled in full conclave, w^hen Mr. Squeers, with a small bun- 
dle of papers in his hand, and Mrs. S. following with a pair of 
canes, entered the room and proclaimed silence. 

“Let any boy speak a word without leave,” said Mr. 
Squeers mildly, “ and I’ll take the skin off his back.” 

This special proclamation had the desired effect, and a 
death-like silence immediately prevailed, in the midst of which 
Mr. Squeers went on to say : 

“ Boys, I have been to London, and have returned to my 
family and you, as strong and well as ever.” 

According to half-yearly custom, the boys gave three feeble 
cheers at this refreshing intelligence. Such cheers ! Sighs of 
extra strength with the chill on. 

“ I have seen the parents of some boys,” continued Squeers, 


48 


DOTHEBOTS HALL. 


turning over his papers, “ and they’re so glad to hear how their 
sons are getting on, that there is no prospect at all of their going 
away, which of course is a very pleasant thing to reflect upon, 
for all parties.” 

Two or three hands went to two or three eyes when Squcers 
said this, but the greater part of the young gentlemen having 
no particular parents to speak of, were wholly uninterested in 
the thing one way or other. 

“ I have had disappointments to contend against,” said 
Squeers, looking very grim ; “ Solder’s father was two pound 
ten short. Where is Bolder ? ” 

‘‘ Here he is, please Sir,” rejoined twenty officious voices. 

Boys are very like men to be sure. 

“ Come here. Bolder,” said Squeers. 

An unhealthy-looking boy, with warts all over his hands, 
stepped from his place to the master’s desk, and raised his 
eyes imploringly to Squeers’s face ; his own, quite white from 
the rapid beating of his heart. 

“ Bolder,” said Squeers, speaking very slowly, for he was 
considering, as the saying goes, where to have him, “ Bolder, 
if your father thinks that because — why, what’s this. Sir ? ” 

As Squeers spoke, he caught up the boy’s hand by the cuff 
of his jacket, and surveyed it with an edifying aspect of hor- 
ror and disgust. 

“ What do you call this. Sir ? ” demanded the schoolmaster, 
administering a cut with the cane to expedite the reply. 

“ I can’t help it, indeed. Sir,” rejoined the boy, crying. 
“They will come ; it’s the dirty work I think. Sir — at least I 
don’t know what it is. Sir, but it’s not my fault.” 

“ Bolder,” said Squeers, tucking up his wristbands and 
moistening the palm of his right hand to get a good grip of the 
cane, “ you’re an incorrigible young scoundrel, and as the last 
thrashing did you no good, we must see what another will do 
towards beating it out of you.” 


DOTIIEBOTS HALL. 


4:9 

With this, and wholly disregarding a piteous cry for mercy, 
Mr. Squeers fell upon the boy and caned him soundly : not 
leaving off indeed, until his arm was tired out. 

“ There,” said Squeers, when he had quite done ; “ rub 
away as hard as you like you won’t rub that off in a hurry 
Oh ! you won’t hold that noise, won’t you ? Put him out, Smike.” 

The drudge knew better, from long experience, than to hes- 
itate about obeying, so he bundled the victim out by a side 
door, and Mr. Squeers perched himself again on his own stool, 
supported by Mrs. Squeers, who occupied another at his side. 

“ Now let us see,” said Squeers. “ A letter for Cobbey. 
Stand up, Cobbey.” 

Another boy stood up, and eyed the letter very hard while 
Squeers made a mental abstract of the same. 

“ Oh ! ” said Squeers : “ Cobbey’s grandmother is dead, 
and his uncle John has took to drinking, which is all the news 
his sister sends, except eighteenpence, which will just pay for 
that broken square of glass. Mrs. Squeers, my dear, will you 
take the money ? ” 

The worthy lady pocketed the eighteenpence with a most 
business-like air, and Squeers passed on to the next boy as 
coolly as possible. 

“ Graymarsh,” said Squeers, “ he’s the next. Stand up, 
Graymarsh.” 

Another boy stood up, and the schoolmaster looked over 
the letter as before. 

“ Graymarsh’s maternal aunt,” said Squeers when he had 
possessed himself of the contents, “ is very glad to hear he’s so 
well and happy, and sends her respectful compliments to Mrs. 
Squeers, and thinks she must be an angel. She likewise thinks 
Mr. Squeers is too good for this world ; but hopes he may long 
be spared to carry on the business. Would have sent the two 
pair of stockings as desired, but is short of money, so forwards 
a tract instead, and hopes Graymarsh will put his trust in Prov- 
3 


50 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 

idence. Hopes above all, that he will study in every thing to 
please Mr. and Mrs. Squeers, and look upon them as his only 
friends ; and that he will love Master Squeers, and not object 
to sleeping five in a bed, which no Christian should. Ah ! ” 
said Squeers, folding it up, “a delightful letter. Very affect- 
ing, indeed.” 

It was affecting in one sense, for Graymarsh’s maternal 
aunt was strongly supposed, by her more intimate friends, to 
be no other than his maternal parent ; Squeers, however, with- 
out alluding to this part of the story (which would have sound- 
ed immoral before boys), proceeded with the business by call- 
ing out “ Mobbs,” whereupon another boy rose, and Graymarsh 
resumed his seat. 

“ Mobbs’s mother-in-law,” said Squeers, “ took to her bed 
on hearing that he would not eat fat, and has been very ill 
ever since. She wishes to know by an early post where he 
expects to go to, if he quarrels with his vittles ; and with what 
feelings he could turn up his nose at the cowl’s liver broth, af- 
ter his good master had asked a blessing on it. This was told 
her in the London newspapers — not by Mr. Squeers, for he is 
too kind and too good to set anybody against anybody — and 
it has vexed her so much, Mobbs can’t think. She is sorry 
to find he is discontented, which is sinful and horrid, and 
hopes Mr. Squeers will flog him into a happier state of mind ; 
with which view she has also stopped his halfpenny a week 
pocket-money, and given a double-bladed knife with a cork- 
screw in it to the Missionaries, which she had bought on pur- 
pose for him.” 

“A sulky state of feeling,” said Squeers, after a terrible 
pause, during which he had moistened the palm of his right 
hand again, won’t do ; cheerfulness and contentment must be 
kept up. Mobbs, come to me.” 

Mobbs moved slowly towards the desk, rubbing his eyes in 
anticipation of good cause for doing so ; and he soon after- 


DOTIIEBOTS HALL, 


51 


wards retired, by the side door, with as good cause as a boy 
need have. 

Mr. Squeers then proceeded to open a miscellaneous collec- 
tion of letters, some enclosing money, which Mrs. Squeers 
'‘‘took care of;” and others referring to small articles of appar- 
el, as caps and so forth, all of which the same lady stated to 
be too large or too small, and calculated for nobody but young 
Squeers, who would appear indeed to have had most accom- 
modating limbs, since everything that came into the school fitted 
him to a nicety. His head, in particular, must have been sin- 
gularly elastic, for hats and caps of all dimensions were alike 
to him. 

This business despatched, a few slovenly lessons were per- 
formed, and Squeers retired to his fireside, leaving Nicholas 
to take care of the boys in the school-room, which was very 
cold, and where a meal of bread and cheese was served out 
shortly after dark. 

There was a small stove at that corner of the room which 
was nearest to the master’s desk, and by it Nicholas sat down, 
so depressed and self-degraded by the consciousness of his 
position, that if death could have come upon him at that time, 
he would have been almost happy to meet it. The cruelty of 
which he had been an unwilling witness, the coarse and ruffian- 
ly behavior of Squeers even in his best moods, the filthy place, 
the sights and sounds about him, all contributed to this state 
of feeling ; but when he recollected that, being there as an as- 
sistant, he actually seemed — no matter what unhappy train of 
circumstances had brought him to that pass— to be the aider 
and abettor of a system which filled him with honest disgust 
and indignation, he loathed himself, and felt, for the moment, 
as though the mere consciousness of his present situation 
must, through all time to come, prevent his raising his head 
again. ' . 

As he was absorbed in these meditations, he all at once 


52 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


encountered the upturned face of Smike, who was on his knees 
before the stove, pickkig a few stray cinders from the hearth 
and planting them on the fire. He had paused to steal a look 
at Nicholas, and when he saw that he was observed, shrunk 
back, as if expecting a blow. 

“ You need not fear me,” said Nicholas kindly. “ Are you 
cold?” 

« N-n-o.” 

“ You are shivering.” 

“ I am not cold,” replied Smike quickly. “ I am used 
to it.” 

There was such an obvious fear of giving offence in his 
manner, and he was such a timid, broken-spirited creature, 
that Nicholas could not help exclaiming, Poor fellow ! ” 

If he had struck the drudge, he would have slunk away 
without a word. But, now, he burst into tears. 

“ Oh dear, oh dear ! ” he cried, covering his face with his 
cracked and horny hands. “My heart will break. It will, it 
will.” 

Hush ! ” said Nicholas, laying his hand upon his shoulder. 
“ Be a man ; you are nearly one by years, God help you.” 

“ By years ! ” cried Smike. “ Oh dear, dear, how many of 
them ! How many of them since I was a little child, younger 
than any that are here now ! Where are they all ! ” 

“ Whom do you speak of? ” inquired Nicholas, wishing to 
rouse the poor half-witted creature to reason. “ Tell me.” 

“My friends,” he replied, “myself — my — oh! what suffer- 
ings mine have been ! ” 

“ There is always hope,” said Nicholas ; he knew not what 
to say. 

“ No,” rejoined the other, “ no ; none for me. Do you re- 
member the bey that died here ? ” 

“ I was not here, you know,” said Nicholas gently ; “ but 
what of him?” 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


53 


“Why,” replied the youth, drawing closer to his question- 
er’s side, “ I was with him at night, and A’hen it was all silent 
he cried no more for friends he wished to come and sit with 
him, but began to see faces round his bed that came from 
home ; he said they smiled, and talked to him ; and he died 
at last lifting his head to kiss them. Do you hear ! ” 

“ Yes, yes,” rejoined Nicholas. 

“ What faces will smile on me when I die ! ” cried his com- 
panion, shivering. “Who will talk to me in those long 
nights ! They cannot come from home ; they would frighten 
me, if they did, for I don’t know what it is, and shouldn’t know 
them. Pain and fear, pain and fear for me, alive or dead. 
No hope, no hope ! ” 

The bell rang to bed ; and the boy, subsiding at the 
sound into his usual listless state, crept away as if anxious to 
avoid notice. It was with a heavy heart that Nicholas soon 
afterwards — no, not retired ; there was no retirement there — 
followed — to his dirty and crowded dormitory. 


54 : 


dotheboys hall. 


CHAPTER IV. 

W HEN Mr. Squeers left the school-room for the night, 
he betook himself, as has been before remarked, to his 
own fire-side, which was situated, not in the room in which Nich- 
olas had supped on the night of his arrival, but in a smaller 
apartment in the rear of the premises, where his lady wife, his 
amiable son, and accomplished daughter, were in the full enjoy- 
ment of each other’s society ; Mrs. Squeers being engaged in 
the matronly pursuit of stocking-darning, and the young lady 
and gentleman occupied in the adjustment of some youthful 
differences by means of a pugilistic contest across the table, 
which, on the approach of their honored parent, subsided into 
a noiseless exchange of kicks beneath it. 

And in this place it may be as well to aj)prise the reader, 
that Miss Fanny Squeers was in her three-and-twentieth year. 
If there be any one grace or loveliness inseparable from that 
particular period of life. Miss Squeers may be presumed to 
have been possessed of it, as there is no reason to suppose that 
she was a solitary exception to a universal rule. She was not 
tall like her mother, but short like her father; from the former 
she inherited a voice of harsh quality, and from the latter a 
remarkable expression of the right eye, something akin to hav- 
ing none at all. 

Miss Squeers had been spending a few days with a neigh- 
boring friend, and had only just returned to the parental roof. 
To this circumstance may be referred her having heard nothing 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


55 


of Nicholas, until Mr. S queers himself now made him the sub- 
ject of conversation. 

“ Well, my dear,” said Squeers, drawing up his chair, “ what 
do you think of him by this time ? ” 

“Think of who ? ” inquired Mrs. Squeers ; who (as she often 
remarked) was no grammarian, thank God. 

“ Of the young man — the new teacher — who else could I 
mean ? ” 

“ Oh J that Knuckieboy,” said Mrs. Squeers impatiently ; 
“ I hate him.” 

“ What do you hate him for, my dear? ” asked Squeers. 

“ What is that to you ? retorted Mrs. Squeers. “ If I 
hate him that’s enough, ain’t it ? ” 

“ Quite enough for him, my dear, and a great deal tcomuch 
I dare say, if he knew it,” replied Squeers in a pacific tone. 
“ I only asked from curiosity, my dear.” 

“ Well, then, if you want to know,” rejoined Mrs. Squeers, 
“ I’ll tell you. Because he’s a proud, haughty, consequential, 
turned-up-nosed peacock.” 

Mrs. Squeers when excited was accustomed to use strong 
language, and moreover to make use of a plurality of epithets, 
some of which were of a figurative kind, as the word peacock, 
and furthermore the allusion to Nicholas’s nose, which was 
not intended to be taken in its literal sense, but rather to bear 
a latitude of construction according to the fancy of the hearers. 
Neither were they meant to bear reference to each other, so 
much as to the object on whom they were bestowed, as will be 
seen in the present case : a peacock with a turned-up nose being 
a novelty in ornitholog}^, and a thing not commonly seen. 

“ Hem ! ” said Squeers, as if in mild deprecation of this out- 
break. “He is cheap, my dear ; the young man is very 
cheap.” 

“ Not a bit of it,” retorted Mrs. Squeers. 

Five pound a year,” said Squeers. 


66 DOTHEBOYS HALL. 

‘‘ What of that ? it’s dear if you don’t want him, isn’t it ? ” 
replied his wife. 

“ But we do want liim,” urged Squeers. 

“ I don’t see that you want him any more than the dead,” 
said Mrs. Squeers. “ Don’t tell me. You can put on the 
cards and in the advertisement, ‘ Education by Mr. Wackford 
Squeers and able assistants,’ without having any assistants, 
can’t you ? Isn’t it done every day by all the masters about ? 
I’ve no patience with you.” 

“ Haven’t you ! ” said Squeers, sternly. “ Now I’ll tell you 
what, Mrs. Squeers. In this matter of having a teacher. I’ll 
take my own way, if you please. A slave-driver in the West 
Indies is allowed a man under him, to see that his blacks don’t 
run away, or get up a rebellion ; and I’ll have a man under me 
to do the same with our blacks, till such time as little Wackford 
is able to take charge of the school.” 

“ Am I to take care of the school when I grow up a man, 
father? ” said Wackford, junior, suspending, in the excess of his 
delight, a vicious kick which he was administering to his sister. 

“ You are, my son,” replied Mr. Squeers, in a sentimental 
voice. 

“ Oh my eye, won’t I give it to the boys ! ” exclaimed the 
interesting child, grasping his father’s cane. “ Oh father, won’t 
I make ’em squeak again ! ” 

It was a proud moment in Mr. Squeers’s life to witness that 
burst of enthusiasm in his young child’s mind, and he saw in 
it a foreshadowing of his future eminence. He pressed a pen- 
ny into his hand, and gave vent to his feelings (as did his exem- 
plary wife also), in a shout of approving laughter. The infan- 
tine appeal to their common sympathies, at once restored cheer- 
fulness to the conversation, and harmony to the company. 

‘‘ He’s a nasty stuck-up monkey, that’s what I consider him, 
said Mrs. Squeers, reverting to Nicholas. 

“ Supposing he is,” said Squeers, “ he is as well stuck-up in 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


57 


our school-room as anywhere else, isn’t he? — especially as he 
don’t like it.” 

“ Well,” observed Mrs. Squeers, “ there’s something in that. 
I hope it’ll bring his pride down, and it shall be no fault of 
mine if it don’t.” 

Now, a proud usher in a Yorkshire school was such a very 
extraordinary and unaccountable thing to hear of, — any usher 
at all being a novelty ; but a proud one, a being of whose ex- 
istence the wildest imagination could never have dreamed 
— that Miss Squeers, who seldom troubled herself with scho- 
lastic matters, inquired with much curiosity who this Knuckleboy 
was, that gave himself such airs. 

“ Nickleby,” said Squeers, spelling the name according 
to some eccentric system which prevailed in his own mind ; 
“your mother always calls things and people by their wrong 
names.” 

“ No matter for that,” said Mrs. Squeers, “I see them with 
right eyes, and that’s quite enough for me. I watched him 
when you were laying on to little Bolder this afternoon. He 
looked as black as thunder, all the while, and, one time start- 
ed up as if he had more than got it in his mind to make a 
rush at you /saw him, though he thought I didn't.” 

“ Never mind that father,” said Miss Squeers, as the head 
of the* family was about to reply. “Who is the man ? ” 

“ Why, your father has got some nonsense in his head that 
he’s the son of a poor gentleman that died the other day,” said 
Mrs. Squeers. 

“ The son of a gentleman ! ” 

“ Yes ; but I don’t believe a word of it. If he’s a gentle- 
man’s son at all, he’s a fondling, that’s my opinion.” 

Mrs. Squeers intended to say “foundling,” b it as she fre- 
quently remarked when she made any such mistake,^ it would 
be all the same a hundred years hence ; with which axiom of 
philosophy, indeed, she was in the constant h^bit of consol- 
3 * 


58 


DOTHEBOTS HALL. 


ing the boys when they labored under more than ordinary ill 
usage. 

“ He’s nothing of the kind,” said Squeers, in answer to the 
above remark, “for his father was married to his mother, years 
before he was born, and she is alive now. If he was, it would 
be no business of ours, for we make a very good friend by 
having him here ; and if he likes to learn the boys any thing be- 
sides minding them, I have no objection I am sure.” 

“ I say again, I hate him worse than poison,” said Mrs. 
Squeers, vehemently. 

“ If you dislike him, my dear,” returned Squeers, “ I don’t 
know anybody who can show dislike better than you, and of 
course there’s no occasion, with him, to take the trouble to 
hide it.” 

“I don’t intend to, I assure you,” interposed Mrs. S. ‘ 

“ That’s right,” said Squeers ; “ and if he has a touch of 
pride about him, as I think he has, I don’t believe there’s a 
woman in all England that can bring anybody’s spirit down, 
as quick as you can, my love.” 

Mrs. Squeers chuckled vastly on the receipt of these 
flattering compliments, and said, she hoped she had tamed 
a high spirit or two in her day. It is but due to her character 
to say, that in conjunction with her estimable husband, she had 
broken many and many a one. 

Miss Fanny Squeers carefully treasured up this, and much 
more conversation on the same subject, until she retired for 
the night, when she questioned the hungry servant, minutely, 
regarding the outward appearance and demeanor of Nicholas ; 
to which queries the girl returned such enthusiastic replies, 
coupled with so many laudatory remarks touching his beauti- 
ful dark eyes, and Iris sweet smile, and his straight legs — upon 
which last named articles she laid particular stress ; the gener- 
al run of legs at Dotheboys Hall being crooked — that Miss 
Squeers was not long in arriving at the conclusion that the 


DOTIIEBOYS HALL. 


69 


new usher must be a very remarkable person, or, as she her- 
self significantly phrased it, “ something quite out of the com- 
mon.” And so Miss Squeers made up her mind that she 
would take a personal observation of Nicholas the next day. 

In pursuance of this design, the young lady watched the 
opportunity of her mother being engaged, and her father ab- 
sent, and went accidentally into the school-room to get a pen 
mended : where, seeing nobody but Nicholas presiding over 
the boys, she blushed very deeply, and exhibited great confu- 
sion, 

“ I beg your pardon,” faltered Miss Squeers ; I thought 
my father was— or might be — dear me, how very awkward ! ” 

‘‘Mr. Squeers is out,” said Nicholas, by no means over- 
come by the apparition, unexpected though it was. 

“ Do you know will he be long. Sir ? ” asked Miss Squeers, 
with bashful hesitation. 

“ He said about an hour,” replied Nicholas — politely of . 
course but without any indication of being stricken to the 
heart by Miss Squeers’s charms. 

“ I never knew any thing happen so cross,” exclaimed the 
young lady. “ Thank you ! I am very sorry I intruded, I am 
sure. If I hadn’t thought my father was here, I wouldn’t upon 
any account have — it is very provoking — must look very 
strange,” murmured Miss Squeers, blushing once more, and 
glancing, from the pen in her hand, to Nicholas at his desk, 
and back again. 

“ If that is all you want,” said Nicholas, pointing to the 
pen, and smiling, in spite of himself, at the affected embarrass- 
ment of the schoolmaster’s daughter, “ perhaps I can supply 
his place.” 

Miss Squeers glanced at the door, as if dubious of the pro- 
priety of advancing any nearer to an utter stranger ; then round 
the school-room, as though in some measure reassured by the 
presence of forty boys j and finally sidled up to Nicholas and 


60 


BGTHEBOTS HALL. 


delivered the pen into his hand, with a most winning mixti:re of 
reserve and condescension. 

“Shall it be a hard or a soft nib?” inquired Nicholas, 
smiling to prevent himself from laughing outright. 

“ He has a beautiful smile,” thought Miss Squeers. 

“Which did you say?” asked Nicholas. 

“ Dear me, I was thinking of something else for the mo- 
ment, I declare,” replied Miss Squeers — “ Oh ! as soft as pos- 
sible, if you please.” With which words, Miss Squeers sighed. 
It might be, to give Nicholas to understand that her heart was 
soft, and that the pen was wanted to' match. 

Upon these instructions Nicholas made the pen ; when he 
gave it to Miss Squeers, Miss Squeers dropped it, and when 
he stooped to pick it up. Miss Squeers stooped also, and they 
knocked their heads together, whereat hve-and-twenty little 
boys laughed aloud, being positively for the first and only time 
that half year. 

“ Very awkward of me,” said Nicholas, opening the door 
for the young lady’s retreat. 

“ Not at all. Sir,” replied Miss Squeers : “ it was my fault. 
It was all my foolish — a — a-good-morning.” 

“ Good-by,” said Nicholas. “ The next I make for you, I 
hope will be made less clumsily. Take care, you are biting the 
nib off now.” 

“ Really,” said Miss Squeers ; “ so embarrassing that I 
scarcely know what I — very sorry to give you so much 
trouble.” 

“ Not the least trouble in the world,” replied Nicholas, 
closing the school-room door. 

“ I never saw such legs in the whole course of my life ! ” 
said Miss Squeers, as she walked away. 

In fact. Miss Squeers was in love with Nicholas Nickleby. 

To account for the rapidity with which this young lady had 
conceived a passion for Nicholas, it may be necessary to stale 


D0TIIE30YS HALL. 61 

that the friend from whom she had so recently returned was a mil- 
ler’s daughter of only eighteen, who had contracted herself unto 
the son of a small corn-factor resident in the nearest market town. 
Miss Squeers and the miller’s daughter being fast friends, had 
covenanted together some two years before, according to a cus- 
tom prevalent among young ladies, that whoever was first en- 
gaged to be married should straightway confide the mighty 
secret to the bosom of the other, before communicating it to any 
living soul, and bespeak her as bridesmaid without loss of time ; 
in fulfilment of which pledge the miller’s daughter, when her en- 
gagement was formed, came out express at eleven o’clock at 
night, as the corn-factor’s son made an offer of his hand and 
heart at twenty-five minutes past ten by the Dutch clock in the 
kitchen, and rushed into Miss Squeers’s bed-room with the grat- 
ifying intelligence. Now, Miss Squeers being five years older 
and out of her teens (which is also a great matter), had since 
been more than commonly anxious to return the compliment, 
and possess her friend with a similar secret ; but either in con- 
sequence of finding it hard to please herself, or harder still to 
please anybody else, had never had an opportunity so to do, 
inasmuch as she had no such secret to disclose. The little in- 
terview with Nicholas had no sooner passed as above described, 
however, than Miss Squeers, putting on her bonnet, made her 
way with great precipitation to her friend’s house, and upon a sol- 
emn renewal of divers old vows of secrecy, revealed how that she 
was — not exactly engaged, but going to be — to a gentleman s 
son — 'none of your corn-factors, but a gentleman’s son of high 
descent) — who had come down as teacher to Dotheboys Hall 
under the most mysterious and remarkable circumstances — in- 
deed, as Miss Squeers more than once hinted she had good 
reason to believe — induced by the fame other many charms, to 
seek her out, and woo and win her. 

“ Isn’t it an extraordinary thing,” said Miss Squeers, em- 
phasizing the adjective strongly. 


62 


DOTHEBOTS HALL. 


“ Most extraordinary,” replied the friend. But what has he 
said to you ? ” 

“Don't ask me what he said, my dear,” rejoined Miss 
Sqiieersj “ if you had only seen his looks and smiles ! I never 
was so overcome in all my life.” ‘ . 

“ Did he look in this way ? ” inquired the miller’s daughter, 
counterfeiting, as nearly as she could, a favorite leer of the corn- 
factor. 

“ Very like that- — only more genteel,” replied Miss Squeers. 

“ Oh ! ” said the friend, “ then he means something depend 
on it.” 

Miss Squeers, having slight misgivings on the subject, was 
by no means ill pleased to be confirmed by a competent au- 
thority ; and, discovering, on further conversation and com- 
parison of notes, a great many points of resemblance between 
the behavior of Nicholas, and that of the corn factor, grew so 
exceedingly confidential, that she intrusted her friend with a 
vast number of things Nicholas had not said, which were all so 
very complimentary as to be quite conclusive. Then, she 
dilated on the fearful hardships of having a father and moth- 
er strenuously opposed to her intended husband ; on which 
unhappy circumstance she dwelt at great length ; for the 
friend’s father and mother were quite agreeable to her being 
married, and the whole courtship was in consequence as flat 
and commonplace an affair as it was possible to imagine. 

“ How I should like to see him ! ” exclaimed the friend. 

“ So you shall, ’Tilda,” replied Miss Squeers. “ I should 
consider myself one of the most ungrateful creatures alive, if 
I denied you. I think mother’s going away for two days to 
fetch some boys ; and when she does. I’ll ask you and John up 
to tea, and have him to meet you.” 

This was a charming idea, and having fully discussed it, the 
friends parted. 

It so fell out, that Mrs. Squeers’s journey, to some distance, 


DOTIIEBOYS HALL. 


63 


to fetch three new boys, and dun the relations of two old 
ones for the balance of a small account, was fixed, that very af- 
ternoon, for the next day but one ; and on the next day but one, 
Mrs. Squeers got up outside the coach, as it stopped to 
change at Greta Bridge, taking with her a small bundle con- 
taining something in a bottle, and some sandwiches, and car- 
rying besides a large white top-coat to wear in the night-time ; 
with which baggage she went her way. 

Whenever such opportunities as these occurred, it was 
Squeers’s custom to drive over to the market town, every even- 
ing, on pretence of urgent business, and stop till ten or eleven 
o’clock at a tavern he much affected. As the party was not in 
his way, therefore, but rather afforded a means of compromise 
with Miss Squeers, he readily yielded his full assent thereunto, 
and willingly communicated to Nicholas that he was expected 
to take his tea in the parlor that evening, at five o’clock. 

To be sure Miss Squeers was in a desperate flutter as the 
time approached, and to be sijre she was dressed out to the 
best advantage : with her hair — it had more than a tinge of red, 
and she wore it in a crop — curled in five distinct rows, up to 
the very top of her head, and arranged dexterously over the 
doubtful eye ; to say nothing of the blue sash which floated 
down her back, or the worked apron, or the long gloves, or 
the green gauze scarf, worn over one shoulder and under the 
other ; or any of the numerous devices which were to be as so 
many arrows to the heart of Nicholas. She had scarcely com- 
pleted these arrangements to her entire satisfaction, when the 
friend arrived with a whitey-brown parcel — flat and three-cor 
nered — containing sundry small adornments which were to be 
put on up stairs, and which the friend put on, talking inces- 
santly. When Miss Squeers had “ done ” the friend’s hair, the 
friend “ did ” Miss Squeers’s hair, throwing in some striking 
improvements in the way of ringlets down the neck ; and then, 
when they were both touched up to their entire satisfaction. 


64 


DOTHEBOTS HALL. 


they went down stairs in full state with the long gloves on, all 
ready for company. 

“Where’s John, ’Tilda ” said Miss Squeers. 

“ Only gone home to clean himself,” replied the friend. 
“ He will be here by the time the tea’s drawn.” 

“ I do so palpitate,” observed Miss Squeers. 

“ Ah ! I know what it is,” replied the friend. 

“ I have not been used to it, you know, ’Tilda,” said Miss 
Squeers, applying her hand to the left side of her sash. 

“ You’ll soon get the better of it, dear,” rejoined the friend. 
While they were talking thus the hungry servant brought in 
the tea things, and, soon afterwards, somebody tapped at the 
room door. 

“ There he is ! ” cried Miss Squeers. “ Oh ’Tilda ! ” 

“Hush!” said ’Tilda. “Hem! Say, come in.” 

“ Come in,” cried Miss Squeers faintly. And in walked 
Nicholas. 

“ Good-evening,” said that young gentleman, all uncon- 
scious of his conquest. “ I understood from Mr. Squeers 
that — ” 

“ Oh yes ; it’s all right,” interposed Miss Squeers. “ Fath- 
er don’t tea with us, but you won’t mind that, I dare say.” 
(This was said archly.) 

Nicholas opened his eyes at this, but he turned the matter 
off very coolly — not caring, particularly, about any thing just 
then — and went through the ceremony of introduction to the 
miller’s daughter, with so much grace, that that young lady 
was lost in admiration. 

“ We are only waiting for one more gentleman,” said Miss 
Squeers, taking off the tea-pot lid, and looking in, to see how 
the tea was getting on. 

It was a matter of equal moment to Nicholas whether they 
were waiting for one gentleman or twenty, so he received the 
intelligence with perfect unconcern ; and being out of spirits. 


D0THEB0Y8 HALL. 


65 


and not seeing any especial reason why he should make him- 
self agreeable, looked out of the window and sighed involun- 
tarily. 

As luck would have it, Miss Squeers’s friend was of a play- 
ful turn, and hearing Nicholas sigh, she took it into her head 
to rally the lovers on their lowness of spirits. 

“ But if it’s caused by my being here,” said the young lady, 
‘Mon’t mind me a bit, for I’m quite as bad. You may go on 
just as you would if you were alone.” 

“ ’Tilda,” said Miss Squeers, coloring up to the top row of 
curls, “ I am ashamed of you ; ” and here the two friends burst 
into a variety of giggles, and glanced, from time to time, over the 
tops of their pocket-handkerchiefs, at Nicholas, who, from a 
state of unmixed astonishment, gradually fell into one of irre- 
pressible laughter — occasioned, partly by the bare notion of his 
being in love with Miss Squeers, and partly by the prejDOster- 
ous appearance and behavior of the two girls. These two 
causes of merriment, taken together, struck him as being so 
keenly ridiculous, that, despite his miserable condition, he 
laughed till he was thoroughly exhausted. 

“ Well,” thought Nicholas, as I am here, and seem expect- 
ed, for some reason or other, to be amiable, it’s of no use 
looking like a goose. I may as well accommodate myself to 
the company.” 

We blush to tell it ; but his youthful spirits and vivacity, 
getting, for a time, the better of his sad thoughts, he no sooner 
formed this resolution than he saluted Miss Squeers and the 
fiiend, with great gallantry, and drawing a chair to the tea- 
table, began to make himself more at home than in all proba- 
bility an usher has ever done in his employer’s house since 
ushers were first invented. 

The ladies were in the full delight of this altered behavior 
on the part of Mr. Nickleby, when the expected swain arrived, 
with his hair very damp from recent washing, and a clean shirt 


66 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


whereof the collar might have belonged to some giant ancestor, 
forming, together with a white waistcoat of similar dimensions, 
the chief ornament of his person. 

“ Well, John,” said Miss Matilda Price (which by the bye, 
was the name of the miller’s daughter). 

“ Weel,” said John with a grin that even the collar could 
not conceal. 

“ I beg your pardon,” interposed Miss Squeers, hastening 
to do the honors. “ Mr. Nickleby — Mr. John Browdie.” 

“Servant, Sir,” said John, who was something over six feet 
high, with a face and body rather above the due proportion 
than below it. 

“ Yours to command. Sir,” replied Nicholas, making fear- 
ful ravages on the bread and butter. 

Mr. Browdie was not a gentleman of great conversational 
powers, so he grinned twice more, and having now bestowed 
his customary mark of recognition on every person in com- 
pany, grinned at nothing particular and helped himself to food. 

“ Old wooman awa’, beant she ?” said Mr. Browdie, with 
his mouth full. 

Miss Squeers nodded assent. 

Mr. Browdie gave a grin of special width, as if he thought 
that really was something to laugh at, and went to work at the 
bread and butter with increased vigor. It was quite a sight 
to behold how he and Nicholas emptied the plate between 
them. 

“Ye wean’t get bread and butther ev’ry neight I expect, mun,* 
said Mr. Browdie, after he had sat staring at Nicholas a long 
time over the empty plate. 

Nicholas bit his lip and colored, but affected not to hear 
the remark. 

“ Ecod,” said Mr. Browdie, laughing boisterously, “ they 
dean’t put too much intiv ’em. Ye’ll be nowt but skeen and 
boans if you stop here long eneaf. Ho ! ho ! ho 1 ” 


rK)THEB0Y8 HALL. 


67 


“You are facetious, Sir,” said Nicholas, scornfully. 

“Na; I deant know,” replied Mr. Browdie, “but t’oother 
teacher, ’cod he wur a lean ’un, he wur.” The recollection 
of the last teacher’s leanness seemed to afford Mr. Browdie the 
most exquisite delight, for he laughed until he found it neces- 
sary to api^ly his coat-cuffs to his eyes. 

“I don’t know whether your perceptions are quite keen 
enough, Mr. Browdie, to enable you to understand that younre- 
marks are very offensive,” said Nicholas in a towering passion, 

“ but if they are, have the goodness to — ” 

“ If you say another word, John,” shrieked Miss Price, 
stopping her admirer’s mouth as he was about to interrupt, 
“only half a word. I’ll never forgive you, or speak to you‘ 
again.” 

“ Weel, my lass, I deant care aboot ’un,” said the corn-factor, 
bestowing a hearty kiss on Miss Matilda; “let ’un gang on, 
let ’un gang on.” 

It now became Miss S queers’s turn to intercede with Nich- 
olas, which she did with many symptoms of alarm and horror ; 
the effect of the double intercession was that he and John 
Browdie shook hands across the table with much gravity, and 
such was the imposing nature of the ceremonial, that Miss 
Squeers was overcome and shed tears. 

“ What’s the matter, Fanny ? ” said Miss Price. 

“ Nothing, ’Tilda,” replied Miss Squeers, sobbing. 

“ There never was any danger,” said Miss Price, “ was 
there, Mr. Nickleby ? ” 

“ None at all,” replied Nicholas. “ Absurd.” 

“ That’s right,” whispered Miss Price,” say something kind 
to her, and she’ll soon come around. Here ! Shall John and I 
go into the little kitchen, and come back presently ? ” 

“Not on any account,” rejoined Nicholas, quite alarmed at 
the proposition. “ What on earth should you do that for ? ” 

“ Well,” said Miss Price, beckoning him aside, and speak- 


68 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


ing with some degree of contempt — “ you are a one to keep 
company.” 

. “ What do you mean ? ” said Nicholas. “ I am not a one to 
keep company at all — here at all events. I can’t make this 
out.” 

“ No, nor I neither,” rejoined Miss Price ; “but men are al- 
ways fickle, and always were, and always will be ; that I can 
make out very easily.” 

Fickle ! ” cried Nicholas ; “ what do you suppose ! You 
don’t mean to say that you think — ” 

“ Oh no, I think nothing at all,” retorted Miss Price pet- 
tishly. “ Look at her dressed so beautiful and looking so well 
— really almost handsome. I am ashamed at you.” 

“ My dear girl, what have I got to do with her dressing 
beautifully or looking well ? ” inquired Nicholas. 

“ Come, don’t call me a dear girl, ’’said Miss Price — smiling a 
little though, for she was pretty, and a coquette too in her small 
way, and Nicholas was good-looking, and she supposed him 
the property of somebody else, which were all reasons why she 
should be gratified to think she had made an impression on 
him, “or Fanny will be saying it’s my fault. Come; we’re 
going to have a game at cards.” Pronouncing these last 
words aloud she tripped away and rejoined the big York- 
shireman. 

This was wholly unintelligible to Nicholas, who had no 
other distinct impression on his mind at the moment, than that 
Miss Squeers was an ordinary-looking girl, and her friend Miss 
Price a pretty one ; but he had not time to enlighten himself by 
reflection, for the hearth being by this time swept up, and the 
candle snuffed, they sat down to play speculation. 

“ There are only four of us, ’Tilda,” said Miss Squeers, look- 
ing slyly at Nicholas, “ so we had better go partners, two against 
two.” 

“ What do you say, Mr. Nickleby ? ” inquired Miss Price. 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


69 


“ With all the pleasure in life,” replied Nicholas. And so 
saying, quite unconscious of his heinous oiTence, he amalgama- 
ted into one common heap those portions of a Dotheboys Hall 
card of terms, which represented his own counters, and those 
allotted to Miss Price, respectively. 

“ Mr. Browdie,” said Miss Squeers hysterically, “ shall we 
make a bank against them ? ” 

The Yorkshireman assented — apparently quite overwhelm- 
ed by the new usher’s impudence — and Miss Squeers darted a 
spiteful look at her friend, and giggled convulsively. 

The deal fell to Nicholas, and the hand prospered. 

“ We intend to win every thing,” said he. 

“ ’Tilda has won something she didn’t expect, I think, 
haven’t you, dear.?” said Miss Squeers, maliciously. 

“Only a dozen and eight, love,” replied Miss Price, affect- 
ing to take the question in a literal sense. 

“ How dull you are to-night ! ” sneered Miss Squeers. 

No, indeed,” replied Miss Price, “ I am in excellent 
spirits. I was thinking you seemed out of sorts.” 

“ Me ! ” cried Miss Squeers, biting her lips, and trembling 
with very jealousy ; “ Oh no ! ” 

“ That’s well,” remarked Miss Price. “ Your hair’s com- 
ing out of curl, dear.” 

“ Never mind me,” tittered Miss -Squeers ; “you had bet- 
ter attend to your partner.” 

“ Thank you for reminding her,” said Nicholas. “ So she 
had ” 

The Yorkshireman flattened his nose, once or twice, with 
his clenched fist, as if to keep his hand in, till he had an op- 
portunity of exercising it upon the features of some other gen- 
tleman ; and Miss Squeers tossed her head with such indigna- 
tion, that the gust of wind raised by the multitudinous curls in 
motion, nearly blew the candle ou^ 

“ I never had such luck, really,” exclaimed coquettish Miss 


70 


IX)THEB0YS HALL. 


Price, after another hand or two. It’s all along of you, Mr. 
Nickleby, I think. I should like to have .you for a partner al- 
ways.” 

“ I wish you had.” 

“ You’ll have a bad wife, though, if you always wfh at 
cards,” said Miss Price. 

“ Not if your wish is gratified,” replied Nicholas. “ I am 
sure I shall have a good one in that case.” 

To see how Miss Squeers tossed her head, and the corn- 
factor flattened his nose, while this conversation was carrying 
on ! It would have been worth a small annuity to have beheld 
that ; let alone Miss Price’s evident joy at making them jeal- 
ous, and Nicholas Nickleby ’s happy unconsciousness of mak- 
ing anybody uncomfortable. 

“We have all the talking to ourselves, it seems,” said 
Nicholas, looking good-humoredly round the table as he took 
up the cards for a fresh deal. 

“ You do it so well,” tittered Miss Squeers, “ that it would 
be a pity to interruiDt, wouldn’t it, Mr. Browdie } He ! 
he ! he ! ” 

“ Nay,” said Nicholas, “ we do it in default of having any- 
body else to talk to.” 

“ We’ll talk to you, you knov/, if you’ll say any thing,” said 
Miss Price. 

“ Thank you, ’Tilda, dear,” retorted Miss Squeers, majes 
tically. 

“ Or you can talk to each other, if you don’t choose to talk 
to us,” said Miss Price, rallying her dear friend. “ John, why 
don’t you say something ? ” 

“ Say summat ? ” repeated the Yorkshireman. ' 

“ Ay, and not sit there so silent and glum.” 

“ Weel, then ! ” said the Yorkshireman, striking the table 
heavily with his fist, “ what I say’s this — Dang my boans and 
boddy, if I stan’ this any longer. Do ye gang whoam wi me, 


DOTHKBOYS HALL. 


71 


and do yon loight an’ toight young whipster, look sharp out for 
a brokken head, next time he cums under my bond.” 

“ Mercy on us, what’s all this ? ” cried Miss Price, in affected 
astonishment. 

“ Cum whoam, tell ’e, cum whoam,” replied the Yorkshire- 
man, sternly. And as he delivered the reply. Miss Squeers 
burst into a shower of tears ; arising in part from desperate 
vexation, and in part from an impotent desire to lacerate some- 
body’s countenance with her fair finger-nails. 

This state of things had been brought about, by divers 
means and workings. Miss Squeers had brought it about by 
aspiring to the high state and condition of being matrimonially 
engaged, without good grounds for so doing ; Miss Price had 
brought it about, by indulging in three motives of action : first, 
a desire to punish her friend for laying claim to a rivalship in 
dignity, having no good title : secondly, the gratification of her 
own vanity, in receiving the compliments of a smart young man : 
and thirdly, a wish to convince the corn-factor of the great dan- 
ger he ran, in deferring the celebration of their expected nup- 
tials ; while Nicholas had brought it about, by half an hour’s 
gayety and thoughtlessness, and a very sincere desire to avoid 
the imputation of inclining at all to Miss Squeers. So the 
means employed, and the end produced, were alike the most 
natural in the world ; for young ladies will look forward to be- 
ing married, and will jostle each other in the race to the altar, 
and will avail themselves of all opportunities of displaying their 
own attractions to the best advantage, down to the very end of 
time, as they have done from its beginning. 

“ Why, and here’s Fanny in tears now ! ” exclaimed Miss 
Price, as if in fresh amazement. “ What can be the matter ” 
Oh ! you don’t know. Miss, of course you don’t know. 
Pray don’t trouble yourself to inquire,” said Miss Squeers, pro- 
ducing that change of countenance which children call, making 
a face. 


72 


DOtHEBOYS HALL. 


“ Well, I’m sure ! ” exclaimed Miss Price. 

“ And who cares whether you are sure or not, ma’am ? ” re- 
torted Miss Squeers, making another face. 

“ You are monstrous polite, ma’am,” said Miss Price. 

I shall not come to you to take lessons in the art, ma’am ! ” 
retorted Miss Squeers. 

“ You needn’t take the trouble to make yourself plainer than 
you are, ma’am, however,” rejoined Miss Price, ‘‘ because that’s 
quite unnecessary.” 

Miss Squeers, in reply, turned very red, and thanked God 
that she hadn’t got the bold faces of some people. Miss Price, 
in rejoinder, congratulated herself upon not being possessed of 
the envious feeling of other people ; whereupon Miss Squeers 
made some general remark touching the danger of associating 
with low persons ; in which Miss Price entirely coincided : ob- 
serving that it was very true indeed, and she had thought so a 
long time. 

“’Tilda,” exclaimed Miss Squeers with dignity, “I hate 
you.” 

“ Ah ! There’s no love lost between us I assure you,” said 
Miss Price, tying her bonnet strings with a jerk. “ You’ll cry 
your eyes out when I’m gone, you know you will.” 

“ I scorn your words. Minx,” said Miss Squeers. 

“ You pay me a great compliment when you say so,” an- 
swered the miller’s daughter, curtseying very low. “ Wish you 
a very good night, ma’am, and pleasant dreams attend your 
sleep.” 

With this parting benediction Miss Price swept from the 
room, followed by the huge Yorkshireman, who exchanged 
with Nicholas at parting, that peculiarly expressive scowl with 
which the cut and-thrust counts in melo-dramatic performances 
inform each other they will meet again. 

They were no sooner gone than Miss Squeers fulfilled the 
prediction of her quondam friend by giving vent to a most copi- 


DOTIIEBOYS HALL. 


73 


ous burst of tears, and uttering various dismal lamentations and 
incoherent words. Nicholas stood looking on for a few seconds, 
ratlier doubtful what to do, but feeling uncertain whether the 
fit would end in his being embraced or scratched, and consid- 
ering that either infliction would be equally agreeable, he 
walked off very quietly while Miss Squeers was moaning in her 
pocket-handkerchief. 

“ This is one consequence,” thought Nicholas, when he 
had groped his way to the dark sleeping-room, ‘‘ of my cursed 
readiness to adapt myself to any society into which chance 
carries me. If I had sat mute and motionless, as I might have 
done, this would not have happened.” 

He listened for a few minutes, but all was quiet. 

“ I was glad,” he murmured, “ to grasp at any relief from 
the sight of this dreadful place, or the presence of its vile mas- 
ter. I have set these people by the ears and made two new 
enemies, where. Heaven knows, I needed none. Well, it is a 
just punishment for having forgotten, even for an hour, what 
is around me now.” 

So saying, he felt his way among the throng of weary-heart- 
ed sleepers, and crept into his poor bed. 

4 


74 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


CHAPTER V. 

I T was a fortunate circumstance for Miss Fanny Squeers that 
when her worthy papa returned home on the night of the 
small tea-party, he was what the initiated term “ too far gone” to 
observe the numerous tokens of extreme vexation of spirit which 
was plainly visible in her countenance. Being, however, of a 
rather violent and quarrelsome mood in his cups, it is not im- 
possible that he might have fallen out with her, either on this 
or some imaginary topic, if the young lady had not, with a fore- 
sight and prudence highly commendable, kept a boy up, on 
purpose, to bear the first brunt of the good gentleman’s anger ; 
which, having vented itself in a variety of kicks and cuffs, sub- 
sided sufficiently to admit of his being persuaded to go to bed, 
which he did with his boots on, and an umbrella under his 
arm. 

The hungry servant attended Miss Squeers in her own room 
according to custom, to curl her hair, perform the other little 
offices of her toilet, and administer as much flattery as she 
could get up for the purpose ; for Miss Squeers was quite lazy 
enough (and sufficiently vain and frivolous withal) to have been 
a fine lady ; and it was only the arbitrary distinctions of rank 
and station which prevented her from being one. 

“ How lovely your hair do curl to-night, miss ! ” said the 
handmaiden. “ I declare if it isn’t a pity and a shame to brush 
it out ! ” 

“ Hold your tongue ! ” replied Miss Squeers wrathfully. 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


75 


Some considerable experience prevented the girl from be- 
ing at all surprised at any outbreak of ill-temper on the part 
of Miss Squeers. Having a half perception of what had oc- 
curred in the course of the evening, she changed her m ode 
of making herself agreeable, and proceeded on the indirect 
tack. 

“ Well, I couldn’t help saying. Miss, if you was to kill me 
for it,” said the attendant, “ that I never see anybody look so 
vulgar as Miss Price this night.” 

Miss Squeers sighed, and composed herself to listen. 

“ I know it’s very wrong in me to say so. Miss,” continued 
the girl, delighted to see the impression she was making, “ Miss 
Price being a friend of yours and all ; but she do dress herself 
out so, and go in such a manner to get noticed, that — oh — 
well, if people only saw themselves.” 

“ What do you mean, Phib ? ” asked Miss Squeers, looking 
in her own little glass, where, like most of us, she saw — not 
herself, but the reflection of some pleasant image in her own 
brain. “ How you talk ! ” 

** Talk, Miss ! It’s enough to make a Tom-cat talk French 
grammar, only to see how she tosses her head,” replied the 
handmaid. 

She does toss her head,”*observed Miss Squeers, with an 
air of abstraction. 

“ So vain, and so very — very plain,” said the girl. 

• “ Poor ’Tilda ! ” sighed Miss Squeers, compassionately. 

“ And always laying herself out so to get to be ad- 
mired,” pursued the servant. “Oh dear ! It’s positive indel- 
icate.” 

“ I can’t allow you to talk in that way, Phib,” said Miss 
Squeers. “ ’Tilda’s friends are low people, and if she don’t 
know any better it’s their fault, and not hers.” 

“ Well, but you know. Miss,” said Phoebe, for which name 
“ Phi]5 was used as a patronizing abbreviation, “ if she was 


76 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


only to take copy by a friend — oh ! if she only knew how wrong 
she was, and would but set herself right by you, what a nice 
young woman she might be in time ! ” 

“ Phib,” rejoined Miss Squeers, with a stately air, “ it’s 
not proper for me to hear these comparisons drawn ; they 
make ’Tilda look a coarse, improper sort of person, and it 
seems unfriendly in me to listen to them. I would rather you 
dropped the subject, Phib ; at the same time I must say that 
if ’Tilda Price would take pattern by somebody — not me par- 
ticularly — ” 

“ Oh yes ; you. Miss,” interposed Phib. 

“ Well, me Phib, if you will have it so,” said Miss Squeers. 
“ I must say that if she would, she would be all the better for 
it.” 

“ So somebody else thinks, or I am much mistaken,” said 
the young girl mysteriously. 

“ What do you mean ? ” demanded Miss Squeers. 

“ Never mind. Miss,” replied the girl ; “ I know what I 
know, that’s all.” 

“ Phib,” said Miss Squeers dramatically, “ I insist on your 
explaining yourself. What is this dark mystery ? Speak.” 

“ Why, if you will have it. Miss, it’s this,” said the servant 
girl. “Mr. John Browdie thinks as you think; and if he 
wasn’t too far gone to do it creditable, he’d be very glad to be 
off with Miss Price and on with Miss Squeers.” 

“ Gracious Heavens ! ” exclaimed Miss Squeers, clasping 
her hands with great dignity. “ What is this ? ” 

“ Truth, ma’am, and nothing but truth,” replied the artful 
Phib. 

“ What a situation ! ” cried Miss Squeers, “ on the brink of 
unconsciously destroying the peace and happiness of my own 
’Tilda. What is the reason that men fall in love with me, 
whether I like it or not, and desert their chosen intendeds for 
my sake ! ” 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


n 

“ Because they can’t help it, Miss,” replied the girl ; “ the 
reason’s plain.” (If Miss Squeers were the reason it was 
very plain.) 

“ Never let me hear of it again,” retorted Miss Squeers. 
“ Never ; do you hear ? ’Tilda Price has faults — many faults 
— but I wish her well, and above all I wish her married ; for 1 
think it highly desirable — most desirable from the very nature 
of her failings — that she should be married as soon as possible. 
No, Phib. Let her have Mr. Browdie. I may pity him, poor 
fellow ; but I have a great regard for ’Tilda, and only hope she 
may make a better wife than I think she will.” 

With this effusion of feeling Miss Squeers went to bed. 

Spite is a little word ; but it represents as strange a jumble 
of feelings and compound of discords, as any polysyllable in 
the language. Miss Squeers knew as well in her heart of hearts 
that what the miserable serving girl had said was sheer, coarse, 
lying flattery, as did the girl herself, yet the mere opportunity 
of venting a little ill-nature against the offending Miss Price 
and affecting to compassionate her weakness and foibles, though 
only in the presence of a solitary dependant, was almost as 
great a relief to her spleen as if the whole had been gospel truth. 
Nay more. We have such extraordinary powers of persuasion 
when they are exerted over ourselves, that Miss Squeers felt 
quite high-minded and great after her noble renunciation of 
John Browdie’s hand, and looked down upon her rival with a 
kind of holy calmness and tranquillity that had a mighty effect 
in soothing her ruffled feelings. 

This happy state of mind had some influence in bringing 
about a reconciliation j for when a knock came at the front door 
next day, and the miller’s daughter was announced. Miss 
Squeers betook herself to the parlor in a Christian frame of 
spirit perfectly beautiful to behold. 

“Well, Fanny,” said the miller’s daughter, “you see I have 
come to see you, although we had some words last night.” 


78 


DOTHESOYS HALL. 


“ I pity your bad passions, ’Tilda,” replied Miss Squeers ; 
but I bear no malice. I am above it.” 

“ Don’t be cross, Fanny,” said Miss Price. “ I have come 
to tell you something that I know will please you.” 

“ What may that be, ’Tilda ? ” demanded Miss Squeers ; 
screwing up her lips, and looking as if nothing in earth, air, 
fire, or water, could afford her the slightest gleam of satisfac- 
tion. 

“ This,” rejoined Miss Price. “After we left here last night, 
John and I had a dreadful quarrel.” 

“That doesn’t please me,” said Miss Squeers — relaxing 
into a smile though. 

“ Lor ! I wouldn’t think so bad of you as to suppose it did,” 
rejoined her companion. “ That’s not it.” 

“ Oh ! said Miss Squeers,” relapsing into melancholy. “ Go 
on.” 

“ After a great deal of wrangling and saying we would never 
see each other any more,” continued Miss Price, “ we made it 
up, and this morning John went and wrote our names down 
to be put up for the first time next Sunday, so we shall be mar- 
ried in three weeks, and I give you notice to get your frock 
made.” 

There was mingled gall and honey in this intelligence. 
The prospect of the friend’s being married so soon was the gall, 
and the certainty of her not entertaining serious designs upon 
Nicholas was the honey. Upon the whole, the sweet greatly 
preponderated over the bitter, so Miss Squeers said she would 
get the frock made, and that she hoped ’Tilda might be happy, 
though at the same time she didn’t know, and would not have 
her build too much upon it, for men were strange creatures, 
and a great many married women were very miserable, and wish- 
ed themselves single again with all their hearts ; to which con- 
dolence Miss Squeers added others equally calculated to raise 
her friend’s spirits and promote her cheerfulness of mind. 


IX)THEBOYS HALL. 


79 


** But come now, Fanny,” said Miss Price, “ I want to have 
a word or two with you about young Mr. Nickleby.” 

“ He is nothing to me,” interrupted Miss Squeers, with 
hysterical symptoms. “ I despise him too much ! ” 

“ Oh, you don’t mean that, I am sure ? ” replied her friend. 
‘‘ Confess, Fanny ; don’t you like him now? ” 

Without returning any direct reply. Miss Squeers all at 
once fell into a paroxysm of spiteful tears, and exclaimed that 
she was a wTetched, neglected, miserable castaway. 

** I hate everybody,” said Miss Squeers, “ and I wish that 
everybody was dead — that I do.” 

“ Dear, dear I ” said Miss Price, quite moved by this avow- 
al of misanthropical sentiments. ‘‘You are not serious, I am 
sure.” 

“ Yes, I am,” rejoined Miss Squeers, t3dng tight knots in 
her pocket-handkerchief and clenching her teeth. “And I 
wish I was dead too. There.” 

“ Oh ! you’ll think very differently in another five minutes,” 
said Matilda. “ How much better to take him into favor 
again than to hurt yourself by going on in that way ; wouldn’t 
it be much nicer now to have him all to yourself on good terms, 
in a company-keeping, love-making, pleasant sort of manner? ” 

“ I don’t know but what it would,” sobbed Miss Squeers. 
“ Oh ! ’Tilda, how could you have acted so mean and dishon- 
orable ? I wouldn’t have believed it of you if anybody had 
told me.” 

“ Heydey ? ” exclaimed Miss Price, giggling. “ One would 
suppose I had been murdering somebody at least.” 

“ Very nigh as bad,” said Miss Squeers passionately. 

“ And all this because I happen to have enough of good 
looks to make people civil to me,” cried Miss Price. “ Per- 
sons don’t make their own faces, and it’s no more my fault if 
mine is a good one than it is other people’s fault if theirs is a 
bad one.” 


80 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


“ Hold your tongue,” shrieked Miss Squeers, in her shrill- 
est tone ; “ or you’ll make me slap you, ’Tilda, and afterwards 
I should be sorry for it.” 

It is needless to say that by this time the temper of each 
young lady was in some slight degree affected by the tone of 
the conversation, and that a dash of personality was infused into 
the altercation in consequence. Indeed the quarrel, from 
slight beginnings, rose to a considerable height, and was as- 
suming a very violent complexion, when both parties, falling 
into a great passion of tears, exclaimed simultaneously, that 
they had never thought of being spoken to in that way, which 
exclamation, leading to a remonstrance, gradually brought on 
an explanation, and the upshot was that they fell into each 
other’s arms and vowed eternal friendship ; the occasion in 
question making the fifty-second time of repeating the same 
impressive ceremony within a twelvemonth. 

Perfect amicability being thus restored, a dialogue naturally 
ensued upon the number and nature of the garments which 
would be indispensable for Miss Price’s entrance into the holy 
state of matrimony, when Miss Squeers clearly showed that a 
great many more than the miller could, or would, afford, were 
absolutely necessary, and could not decently be dispensed with. 
The young lady then, by an easy digression, led the discourse 
to her own wardrobe, and after recounting its principal beauties 
at some length, took her friend up stairs to make inspection 
thereof. The treasures of two drawers and a closet having 
been displayed, and all the smaller articles tried on, it was 
time for Miss Price to return home ; and as she had been in 
raptures with all the frocks, and had been stricken quite dumb 
with admiration of a new pink scarf. Miss Squeers said in high 
good humor, that she would walk part of the way with her for 
the pleasure of her company ; and off they went together ; 
Miss Squeers dilating, as they walked along, upon her father’s 
accomplishments ; and multiplying his income by ten to give 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


81 


her friend some faint notion of the vast importance and supe- 
riority of her family. 

It happened that that particular time, comprising the short 
daily interval which was suffered to elapse between what was 
pleasantly called the dinner, of Mr. Squeers’s pupils, and their 
return to the pursuit of useful knowledge, v/as precisely the 
hour when Nicholas was accustomed to issue forth for a mel- 
ancholy walk, and to brood, as he sauntered listlessly through 
the village, upon his miserable lot. Miss Squeers knew this 
perfectly well, and had perhaps forgotten it, for when she 
caught sight of that young gentleman advancing towards 
them, she evinced many symptoms of surprise and consterna- 
tion, and assured her friend that she “ felt fit to drop into the 
earth.” 

“ Shall we turn back, or run into a cottage ? ” asked Miss 
Price. “ He don’t see us yet.” 

“ No, ’Tilda,” replied Miss Squeers, “ it is my duty to go 
through with it, and I will ! ” 

As Miss Squeers said this in the tone of one who has made 
a high moral resolution, and was, besides, taken with one or 
two chokes and catchings of breath, indicative of feelings at a 
high pressure, her friend made no farther remark, and they 
bore straight down upon Nicholas, who, walking with his eyes 
bent upon the ground, was not aware of their approach until 
they were close upon him ; otherwise he might, perl\aps, have 
taken shelter himself. 

“ Good-morning, ” said Nicholas, bowing and passing by. 

“ He is going,” murmured Miss Squeers. ‘‘ I shall choke, ’ 
’Tilda.’-’ 

“ Come back, Mr. Nickleby, do cried Miss Price, affect- 
ing alarm at her friend’s threat, hut really actuated by a mali- 
cious wish to hear what Nicholas would say ; “ come back, Mr. 
Nickleby ! ” 

Mr. Nickleby came back, and looked as confused as might 

4 * 


82 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


be, as he inquired whether the ladies had any commands for 
him. 

“ Don’t stop to talk,” urged Miss Price, hastily ; “ but sup- 
port her on the other side. How do you feel now, dear ? ” 

“ Better,” sighed Miss Squeers, laying a beaver bonnet of 
a reddish brown with a green veil attached on Mr. Nickleby’s 
shoulder. “ This foolish faintness ! ” 

Don’t call it foolish, dear,” said Miss Price, her bright 
eye dancing with merriment as she saw the perplexity of Nich- 
olas; “you have no reason to be ashamed of it. It’s those 
who are too proud to come round again, without all this to-do, 
that ought to be ashamed.” 

“ You are resolved to fix it upon me, I see,” said Nicholas, 
smiling, “although I told you, last night, it was not my 
fault.” 

“ There ; he says it was not his fault, my dear,” remarked 
the wicked Miss Price. “ Perhaps you were too jealous, or too 
hasty wfith him? He says it was not his fault. You hear; I 
think that’s apology enough.” 

“ You will not understand me,” said Nicholas. “ Pray dis- 
pense with this jesting, for I have no time, and really no incli- 
nation, to be the subject or promoter of mirth just now.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” asked Miss Price, affecting amaze- 
ment. 

“ Don’t ask him, ’Tilda,” cried Miss Squeers ; “ I forgive 
him.” 

“ Dear me,” said Nicholas, as the brown bonnet went down 
on his shoulder again, “ this is more serious than I supposed. 
Allow me ! Will you have the goodness to hear me speak ? ” 

Here he raised up the.^brown bonnet, and regarding with 
most unfeigned astonishment a look of tender reproach from 
Miss Squeers, shrunk back a few paces to be out of the reach 
of the fair burden, and went on to say : 

“ I am very sorry — truly and sincerely sorry — for having 


D0THEB0Y8 HALL. 


83 


been the cause of any difference among you ; last night I re- 
proached myself, most bitterjy, for having been so unfortu- 
nate as to cause the dissension that occurred, although I did 
so, I assure you, most unwittingly and heedlessly.” 

“ Well ; that’s not all you have got to say, surely,” exclaim- 
ed Miss Price as Nicholas paused. 

“ I fear there is something more,” stammered Nicholas, with 
a half smile, and looking towards Miss Squeers, it is a most 
awkward thing to say — but the very mention of such a suppo- 
sition makes one look like a puppy — still — may I ask if that 
lady supposes that I entertain any — in short, does she think 
that I am in love with her } ” 

“ Delightful embarrassment,” thought Miss Squeers, “ I 
have brought him to it, at last. Answer for me, dear,” she 
whispered to her friend. 

“ Does she think so ? ” rejoined Miss Price ; “ of course she 
does,” 

“ She does ! ” exclaimed Nicholas with such energy of utter- 
ance as might have been, for the moment, mistaken for rap- 
ture. 

“ Certainly,” replied Miss Price. 

“ If Mr. Nickleby has doubted that, Tilda,” said the blush- 
ing Miss Squeers in soft accents, “ he may set his mind at rest. 
His sentiments are recipro — ” 

“ Stop,” cried Nicholas hurriedly ; pray hear me.^ This 
is the grossest and wildest delusion, the completest and most 
signal mistake, that ever human being labored under or com- 
mitted. I have scarcely seen the young lady half-a-dozen 
times, but if I had seen her sixty times, or am destined to see 
her sixty thousand, it would be, and will be, precisely the same. 
I have not one thought, wish or hope connected with her, un- 
less it be — and I say this, not to hurt her feelings, but to im- 
press her with the real state of my ov/n — unless it be the one 
object, dear to my heart as life itself, of being one day able to 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


Si 

turn my back upon this accursed place, never to set foot in it 
again, or think of it — even think of it — but with loathing 
and disgust. ” 

With this particularly plain and straightforward declaration, 
which he made with all the vehemence that his indignant and 
excited feelings could bring to bear upon it, Nicholas, waiting 
to hear no more, retreated. 

But poor Miss Squeers ! Her anger, rage, and vexation ; 
the rapid succession of bitter and passionate feelings that 
whirled through her mind, are not to be described. Refused ! 
refused by a teacher, picked up by advertisement, at an annu- 
al salary of five pounds payable at indefinite periods, and 
“ found” in food and lodging like the very boys themselves ; 
and this too in the presence of a little chit of a miller’s daugh- 
ter of eighteen, w^ho was going to be married, in three weeks’ 
time, to a man who had gone down on his very knees to ask 
her? She could have choked in right good earnest at the 
thought of being so humbled. 

But there was one thing clear in the midst of her mortifica- 
tion ; and that was, that she hated and detested Nicholas with 
all the narrowness of mind and littleness of purpose worthy a 
descendant of the house of Squeers. And there was one com- 
fort too ; and that was, that every hour in every day she could 
wound his pride and goad him with the infliction of some 
slight, or, insult, or deprivation, which could not but have some 
effect on the most insensible person, and must be acutely felt 
by one so sensitive as Nicholas. With these two reflections 
uppermost in her mind. Miss Squeers made the best of the 
matter to her friend, by observing that Mr. Nickleby was such 
an odd creature, and of^such a violent temper, that she feared 
she should be obliged to^give him up ; and parted from her. 

And here it may be remarked, that Miss Squeers having 
bestowed her affections (or whatever it might be that, in the 
absence of any thing better, represented them) on Nicholas 


D0THEB0T8 HALL. 


85 


Nickleby, had never once seriously contemplated the possibili- 
ty of his being of a different opinion from herself in the busi- 
ness. Miss Squeers reasoned that she was prepossessing and 
beautiful, and that her father was master, and Nicholas man, 
and that her father had saved money, and Nicholas had none, 
all of which seemed to her conclusive arguments why the 
young man should feel only too much honored by her prefer- 
ence. She had not failed to recollect, either, how much more 
agreeable she could render his situation if she were his friend, 
and how much more disagreeable if she were his enemy ; and, 
doubtless, many less scrupulous young gentlemen than Nicho- 
las would have encouraged her extravagance had it been only 
for this very obvious and intelligible reason. However, he 
had thought proper to do otherwise, and Miss Squeers was 
outrageous. 

“ Let him see,” said the irritated young lady, when she had 
regained her own room, and eased her mind by committing an 
assault on Phib, “ if I don’t set mother against him a little 
more when she comes back ! ” 

It was scarcely necessary to do this, but Miss Squeers was 
as good as her word ; and poor Nicholas, in addition to bad 
food, dirty lodging, and the being compelled to witness one 
dull unvarying round of squalid misery, was treated with every 
special indignity that malice could suggest, or the most grasp- 
ing cupidity put upon him. 

Nor was this all. There was another and deeper system 
of annoyance which made his heart sink, and nearly drove 
him wild by its injustice and cruelty. 

The wretched creature, Smike, since the night Nicholas 
had spoken kindly to him in the school-room, had followed 
him to and fro with an ever-restless desire to serve or help 
him, anticipating such little wants as his humble ability could 
supply, and content only to be near him. He would sit be- 
side him for hours looking patiently into his face, and a word 


86 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


would brighten up his care-worn visage, and call into it a pass- 
ing gleam even of happiness. He was an altered being ; he had 
an object now, and that object was to show his attachment 
to the only person — that person a stranger — who had treat- 
ed him, not to say with kindness, but like a human creature. 

Upon this poor being all the spleen and ill-hurnor that 
could not be vented on Nicholas were unceasingly bestowed. 
— Drudgery would have been nothing — he was well used to 
that. Buffetings inflicted without cause would have been 
equally a matter of course, for to them also he had served a 
long and weary apprenticeship ; but it was no sooner ob- 
served that he had become attached to Nicholas, than stripes 
and blows, stripes and blows, morning, noon, and night, were 
his only portion. Squeers was jealous of the influence whicli 
his man had so soon acquired, and his family hated him, and 
Smike paid for both. Nicholas saw it, and ground his teeth 
at every repetition of the savage and cowardly attack. 

He had arranged a few regular lessons for the boys, and 
one night as he paced up and down the dismal school-room, 
his swollen heart almost bursting to think that his protection 
and countenance should have increased the misery of the 
wretched being whose peculiar destitution had awakened his 
pity, he paused mechanically in a dark corner where sat the 
object of his thoughts. 

The poor soul was poring hard over a tattered book, with 
the traces of recent tears still upon his face, vainly endeavor- 
ing to master some task which a child of nine years old, pos- 
sessed of ordinary powers, could have conquered with ease, 
but which to the addled brain of the crushed boy of nineteen 
was a sealed and hopeless mystery. Yet there he sat, pa- 
tiently conning the page again and again, stimulated by no 
boyish ambition, for he was the common jest and scoif even of 
the uncouth objects that congregated about him, but inspired 
by the one eager desire to please his solitary friend. 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


87 


Nicholas laid his hand upon his shoulder. 

“ I can’t do it,” said the dejected creature, looking up with 
bitter disappointment in every feature. ** No, no.” 

“ Do not try,” replied Nicholas. 

The boy shook his head, and closing the book with a sigh, 
looked vacantly around, and laid hTs head upon his arm. He 
was weeping. 

Do not, for God’s sake,” said Nicholas, in an agitated 
voice ; “ I cannot bear to see you.” 

“ They are more hard with me than ever,” sobbed the boy. 

“ I know it,” rejoined Nicholas. “They are.” 

“ But for you,” said the outcast, “ I should die. They 
would kill me ; they would, I know they would.” 

“ You will do better, poor fellow,” replied Nicholas, shak- 
ing his head mournfully, “ when I am gone.” 

“ Gone ! ” cried the other, looking intently in his face. 

“ Softly ! ” rejoined Nicholas. “ Yes.” 

“ Are you going ? ” demanded the boy, in an earnest whis- 
per. 

“ I cannot say,” replied Nicholas ; I was speaking more 
to my own thoughts than to you.” 

“ Tell me,” said the boy imploringly. “ Oh do tell me, 
will you go — will you ? ” 

“ I shall be driven to that at last ! ” said Nicholas. “ The 
world is before me, after all.” 

“ Tell me,” urged Smike, “ is the world as bad and dismal 
as this place ? ” 

“ Heaven forbid,” replied Nicholas, pursuing the train of 
his own thoughts, “ its hardest, coarsest toil, were happiness to 
this.” 

“ Should I ever meet you there F ” demanded the boy, 
speaking with unusual wildness and volubility. 

“Yes,” replied Nicholas, willing to soothe him. 

“ No, no ! ” said the other, clasping him by the hand. 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


“ Should I — should I^tell me that again. Say I should be 
sure to find you.” 

“ You would,” replied Nicholas with the same humane in- 
tention, “ and I would help and aid you, and not bring fresh 
sorrow on you as I have done here.” 

The boy caught both the young man’s hands passionately 
in his, and hugging them to his breast, uttered a few broken 
sounds which were unintelligible. Squeers entered at the mo- 
ment, and he shrunk back into his old corner. 


DOTHEBOTS HALL. 


89 


CHAPTER VI. 



HE cold, feeble dawn of a January morning was stealing 


X in at the windows of the common sleeping-room, when 
Nicholas, raising himself upon his arm, looked among the pros- 
trate forms which 'on every side surrounded him, as though in 
search of some particular object. 

It needed a quick eye to detect from among the huddled 
mass of sleepers, the form of any given individual. As they 
lay closely packed together, covered, for warmth’s sake, with 
their patched and ragged clothes, little could be distinguished 
but the sharp outlines of pale faces, over which the sombre 
light shed the same dull heavy color, with here and there a 
gaunt arm thrust forth ; its thinness hidden by no covering, but 
fully exposed to view in all its shrunken ugliness. There were 
some who, lying on their backs with upturned faces and clench- 
ed hands, just visible in the leaden light, bore more the aspect 
of dead bodies than of living creatures ; and there were others 
coiled up into strange and fantastic postures, such as might 
have been taken for the uneasy efforts of pain to gain some 
temporary relief, rather than the freaks of slumber. A few — 
and these were among the youngest of the children — slept 
peacefully on with smiles upon their faces, dreaming perhaps 
of home ; but ever and again a deep and heavy sigh, breaking 
the stillness of the room, announced that some new sleeper had 
awakened to the misery of another day, and, as morning took 




90 


DOtHEBOYS HALL. 


the place of night, the smiles gradually faded away with the 
friendly darkness which had given them birth. 

Dreams are the bright creatures of poem and legend, who 
sport on earth in the night season, and melt away in the first 
^beam of the sun, which lights grim care and stern reality on 
their daily pilgrimage through the world. 

Nicholas looked upon the sleepers at first with the air of 
one who gazes upon a scene which, though familiar to him, has 
lost none of its sorrowful effect in consequence ; and afterwards, 
with a more intense and searching scrutiny, as a man would 
who missed something his eye was accustomed to meet, and 
had expected to rest upon. He was still occupied in the 
search, and had half risen from his bed in the eagerness of his 
quest, when the voice of S queers was heard calling from the 
bottom of the stairs. 

“ Now then,” cried that gentleman, “ are you going to sleep 
all day up there — ” 

“ You lazy hounds ! ” added Mrs. S queers, finishing the sen- 
tence, and producing at the same time a sharp sound like that 
which is occasioned by the lacing of stays. 

“ We shall be down directly. Sir,” replied Nicholas. 

“ Down directly ! ” said Squeers. “ Ah ! you had better be 
down directly, or I’ll be down upon some of you in less. 
Where’s that Smike ? ” 

Nicholas looked hurriedly round again, but made no an- 
swer. 

“ Smike ! ” shouted Squeers. 

** Do you want your head broke in a fresh place, Smike ? ” 
demanded his amiable lady in the same key. 

Still there was no replj^, and still Nicholas stared about 
him, as did the greater part of the boys who were by this time 
roused. 

Confound his impudence,” muttered Squeers, rapping the 
stair-rail impatiently with his cane. “ Nickleby.” 


D0THEB0Y8 HALL. 


91 


“Well, Sir.” 

“ Send that obstinate scoundrel down ; don’t you hear me 
calling ? ” 

“ He is not here, Sir,” replied Nicholas. 

“ Don’t tell me a lie,” retorted the schoolmaster. “ He is.” 

“ He is not,” retorted Nicholas angrily, “ don’t tell me one.” 

“ We shall soon see that,” said Mr. Squeers, rushing up 
stairs. “ I’ll find him, I warrant you.” 

With which assurance, Mr. Squeers bounced into the dor- 
mitory, and swinging his cane in the air ready for a. blow, dart- 
ed into the corner where the lean body of the drudge was usu- 
ally stretched at night. The cane descended harmlessly upon 
the ground. There was nobody there. 

“ What does this mean ? ” said Squeers, turning round with 
a very pale face. “ Where have you hid him ? ” 

“ I have seen nothing of him since last night,” replied Nich- 
olas. 

“ Come,” said Squeers, evidently frightened, though he en- 
deavored to look otherwise, “you won’t save him this way. 
Where is he ? ” 

“ At the bottom of the nearest pond for aught I know,” re- 
joined Nicholas in a low voice, and fixing his eyes full on the 
master’s face. 

“ D — n you, what do you mean by that ? ” retorted Squeers 
in great perturbation. Without waiting for a reply, he inquired 
of the boys whether any one among them knew any thing of 
their missing schoolmate. 

There was a generahhum of anxious denial, in the midst of 
which one shrill voice was heard to say (as, indeed, everybody 
thought) : 

“ Please, Sir, I think Smike’s run away. Sir.” 

“ Ha ! ” cried Squeers, turning sharp around ; “ who said 
that?” 

“ Tomkins, please Sir,” rejoined a chorus of voices. Mr. 


92 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


Squeers made a plunge into the crowd, and at one dive caught 
a very little boy, habited still in his night-gear, and the perplex- 
ed expression of whose countenance as he was brought forward 
seemed to intimate that he was as yet uncertain whether he 
was about to be punished or rewarded for the suggestion. He 
was not long in doubt. 

“You think he has run away, do you, Sir?” demanded 
Squeers. 

“ Yes, please. Sir,” replied the little boy. 

“ And what, Sir,” said Squeers, catching the little boy sud- 
denly by the arms and whisking up his drapery in a most dex- 
terous manner, “ what reason have you to suppose that any boy 
would want to run away from this establishment ? Eh, Sir ? ” 

The child raised a dismal cry, by way of answer, and Mr. 
Squeers, throwing himself into the most favorable attitude for 
exercising his strength, beat him until the little urchin in his 
writhings actually rolled out of his hands, when he mercifully 
allowed him to roll away as best he could. 

“ There,” said Squeers ; “ now if any other boy thinks Smike 
has run away, I should be glad to have a talk with him.” 

There was of course a profound silence, during which Nich- 
olas showed his disgust as plainly as looks could show it. 

“Well, Nickleby,” said Squeers, eyeing him maliciously. 
“ You think he has run away, I suppose ? ” 

“ I think it extremely likely,” replied Nicholas, in a quiet 
manner. ' 

“ Oh, you do, do you ? ” sneered Squeers. “ Maybe you 
you know he has ? ” 

“ I know nothing of the kind.” 

“ He didn’t tell you he was going, I suppose, did he ? ” 
sneered Squeers. t 

“ He did not,” replied Nicholas ; “ I am very glad he did 
not, for it would then have been my duty to have warned you in 
time.” 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


93 


** Which no doubt you would have been devilish sorry to 
do,” said Squeers in a taunting fashion. 

“ I should indeed,” replied Nicholas. “ You interpret my 
feelings with great accuracy.” 

Mrs. Squeers had listened to this conversation from the 
bottom of the stairs ; but now losing all patience, she hastily 
assumed her night-jacket, and made her way to the scene of 
action. 

“ What’s all this here to do ?” said the lady, as the boys 
fell off right and left, to save her the trouble of clearing a pas 
sage with her brawny arms. “What on earth are you talking 
to him for, Squeery ? ” 

“ Why, my dear,” said Squeers, “ the fact is, that Smike is 
not to be found.” 

“ Well, I know that,” said the lady, “ and where’s the won- 
der ! If you get a parcel of proud-stomached teachers that set 
the young dogs a-rebelling, what else can you look for? Now 
young man, you just have the kindness to take yourself off to 
the school-room, and take the boys off with you, and don’t 
you stir out of there ’till you have leave given you, or you and 
I may fall out in a way that’ll spoil your beauty, handsome as 
you think yourself, and so I tell you.” 

“ Indeed 1 ” said Nicholas. 

“ Yes ; and indeed and indeed again. Mister Jackanapes,” 
said the excited lady ; “ and I wouldn’t keep such as you in 
the house another hour, if I had my way.” 

“ Nor would you if I had mine,” replied Nicholas. “ Now 
boys ! ” 

“ Ah ! Now boys,” said Mrs. Squeers, mimicking as near- 
ly as she could the voice and manner of the usher. “ Follow 
your leader, boys, and take pattern by Smike if you dare. 
See what he’ll get for himself when he is brought back ; and, 
mind ! I tell you that you shall have as bad, and twice as bad, 
if you so much as open your mouths about him.” 


94 


DOTHEBOTS HALL. 


If I catch him/’ said Squeers, “ I’ll only stop short of 
flaying him alive. I give you notice, boys.” 

‘‘ ^you catch him,” retorted Mrs. Squeers, contemptuous- 
ly, ‘‘ you are sure to ; you can’t help it. If you go the right 
way to work. Come ! Away with you ! ” 

With these words, Mrs. Squeers dismissed the boys, and, 
after a little light skirmishing with those in the rear who were 
pressing forward to get out of the way, but were detained for a 
few moments by the throng in front, succeeded in clearing the 
room, when she confronted her spouse aloud. 

‘‘ He is off,” said Mrs. Squeers. “ The cow-house and 
stable are locked up, so he can’t be there ; and he’s not down 
stairs anywhere, for the girl has looked. He must have gone 
York way, and by a public road, too.” 

“Why must he ? ” inquired Squeers. 

“ Stupid ! ” said Mrs. Squeers angrily. “ He hadn’t any 
money, had he ? ” 

“ Never had a penny of his own in his whole life, that I know 
of,” replied Squeers. 

“To be sure,” rejoined Mrs. Squeers, “and he didn’t take 
any thing to eat with him ; that I’ll answer for. Ha ! ha i ha ! ” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” laughed Squeers. 

“ Then, of course,” said Mrs. S., “ he must beg his way, and 
he could do that nowhere but on the public road.” 

“ That^ true,” exclaimed Squeers, clapping his hands. 

“ True ! Yes ; but you would never have thought of it, for 
all that, if I hadn’t said so,” replied his wife. “Now, if you 
take the chaise and go one road, and I borrow Swallow’s chaise 
and go the other, what with* keeping our eyes open and asking 
questions, one or other of us is pretty certain to lay hold of 
him.” 

The worthy lady’s plan was adopted and put in execution 
without a moment’s delay. After a very hasty breakfast, and 
the prosecution of some inquiries in the village, the result of 


DOTHEBOTS HALL. 


95 


which seemed to show that he was on the right track, Squeers 
started forth in the pony-chaise, intent upon discovery and ven- 
geance. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Squeers, arrayed in the 
white top-coat, and tied up in various shawls and handkerchiefs, 
issued forth in another chaise and another direction, taking: 
with her a good sized bludgeon, several odd pieces of strong 
cord, and a stout laboring man ; all provided and carried upon 
the expedition with the sole object of assisting in the capture, 
and (once caught) insuring the safe custody of the unfortunate 
Smike. 

Nicholas remained behind in a tumult of feeling, sensible 
that whatever might be the upshot of the boy’s flight, nothing 
but painful and deplorable consequences were likely to ensue 
from it. Death, from want and exposure to the weather, was 
the best that could be expected from the protracted wandering 
of so poor and helpless a creature, alone and unfriended, 
through a country of which he was wholly ignorant. There 
was little, perhaps, to choose between this fate and a return to 
the tender mercies of the Yorkshire school ; but the unhappy 
being had established a hold upon his sympathy and compas- 
sion which made his heart ache at the prospect of the suf- 
fering he was designed to undergo. He lingered on, in rest- 
less anxiety, picturing a thousand possibilities, until the even- 
ing of next day, when Squeers returned, alone and unsuc- 
cessful. 

“ No news of the scamp ! ” said the schoolmaster, who had 
evidently been stretching his legs on the old principle not a 
few times during the journey. “ I’ll have consolation for this 
out of somebody, Nickleby, if Mrs. Squeers don’t hunt him 
down ; so I give you warning.” 

“ It is not in my power to console you. Sir,” said Nicholas. 
“ It is nothing to me.” 

“Isn’t it?” said Squeers in a threatening manner. “We 
shall see ! ” 


96 * 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


“We shall,” rejoined Nicholas. 

“ Here’s the pony run right off his legs, and me obliged to 
come home with a hack cob, that’ll cost fifteen shillings be- 
sides other expenses,” said S queers ; “ who’s to pay for that, 
do you hear ? ” 

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders and remained silent. 

“ I’ll have it out of somebody, I tell you,” said Squeers, 
his usual harsh, crafty manner changed to open bullying. 
“ None of your whining vaporings here, Mr. Puppy, but be off 
to your kennel, for it’s past your bed-time ! Come ! Get out ! ” 

Nicholas bit his lip and knit his hands involuntarily, for 
his finger ends tingled to avenge the insult ; but remembering 
that the man was drunk, and that it could come to little but a 
noisy brawl, he contented himself with darting a contemptuous 
look at the tyrant, and walked, as majestically as he could, up 
stairs, not a little nettled, however, to observe that Miss 
Squeers and Master Squeers, and the servant girl, were enjoy- 
ing the scene from a snug corner ; the two former indulging 
in many edifying remarks about the presumption of poor up- 
starts, which occasioned a vast deal of laughter, in which even 
the most miserable of all miserable sei-vant girls joined ; while 
Nicholas, stung to the quick, drew over his head such bed- 
clothes as he had, and sternly resolved that the outstanding 
account between himself and Mr. Squeers should be settled 
rather more speedily than the latter anticipated. 

Another day came, and Nicholas was scarcely awake when 
he heard the wheels of a chaise approaching the house. It 
stopped. The voice of Mrs. Squeers was heard, and in exulta- 
tion, ordering a glass of spirits for somebody, which was in 
itself a sufficient sign that something extraordinary had hap- 
pened. Nicholas hardly dared to look out of the window; 
but he did so, and the very first object that met his eyes was 
the wretched Smike ; so bedabbled with mud and rain, so hag- 
gard and worn, and wild, that, but for his garments being such 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


97 


as no scarecrow was ever seen to wear, he might have been 
doubtful, even then, of his identity. 

“ Lift him out,” said Squeers, after he had literally feasted 
his eyes, in silence, upon the culprit. “ Bring him in ; bring 
him in ! ” 

“Take care,” cried Mrs. Squeers, as her husband proffered 
his assistance. “ We tied his legs under the apron and made 
’em fast to the chaise, to prevent his giving us the slip again.” 

With hands trembling with delight, Squeers unloosened the 
cord ; and Smike, to all appearances more dead than alive, was 
brought into the house and securely locked up in a cellar until 
such a time as Mr. Squeers should deem it expedient to oper- 
ate upon him in presence of the assembled school. 

Upon a hasty consideration of the circumstances, it may 
be a matter of surprise to some persons, that Mr. and Mrs. 
Squeers should have taken so much trouble to repossess them- 
selves of an incumbrance of which it was their wont to com- 
plain so loudly ; but their surprise will cease when they are in- 
formed that the manifold services of the drudge, if performed 
by anybody else, would have cost the establishment some ten 
or twelve shillings per week in the shape of wages ; and fur- 
thermore, that all runaways were, as a matter of policy, made 
severe examples of at Dotheboys Hall, inasmuch as, in conse- 
quence of the limited extent of its attractions, there was but lit- 
tle inducement, beyond the powerful impulse of fear, for any 
pupil, provided with the usual number of legs and the power 
of using them, to remain. 

The news that Smike had been caught and brought back 
in triumph, ran like wild-fire through the hungry community, 
and expectation was on tiptoe all the morning. On tiptoe it 
was destined to remain, however, until afternoon ; when Squeers, 
having refreshed himself with his dinner, and further strength- 
ened himself by an extra libation or so, made his appearance 
(accompanied by his amiable partner) with a countenance of por- 
5 


98 


DOTIIEBOYS HALL. 


tentous import, and a fearful instrument of flagellation, strong, 
supple, wax-ended, and new — ^in short, purchased that morning 
expressly for the occasion. 

“Is every boy here?” asked Squeers, in a tremendous 
voice. 

Every boy was there, but every boy was afraid to speak ; 
so Squeers glared along the lines to assure himself ; and every 
eye drooped, and every head cowered down, as he did so. 

“ Each boy keep his place,” said Squeers, administering his 
favorite blow to the desk, and regarding with gloomy satisfac- 
tion the universal start which it never failed to occasion. 
“ Nickleby ! to your desk. Sir.” 

It was remarked by more than one small observer that 
there was a very curious and unusual expression in the usher’s 
face ; but he took his seat, without opening his lips in reply. 
Squeers, casting a triumphant glance at his assistant and a 
look of most comprehensive despotism on the boys, left the 
room, and shortly afterward returned, dragging Smike by the 
collar — or rather by that fragment of his jacket which v.'as near- 
est the place where his collar would have been had he boasted 
such a decoration. 

In any other place, the appearance of the wretched, jaded, 
spiritless object would have occasioned a murmur of compas- 
sion and remonstrance. It had some effect even there ; for 
the lookers-on moved uneasily in their seats, and a few of the 
boldest ventured to steal looks at each other, expressive of 
indignation and pity. 

They were lost on Squeers, however, whose gaze was fas- 
tened on the luckless Smike as he inquired, according to cus- 
tom in such cases, whether he had any thing to say for himself. 

“ Nothing, I suppose ? ” said Squeers, with a diabolical grin. 

Smike glanced round, and his eye rested for an instant on 
Nicholas, as if he expected him to intercede ; but his look was 
riveted on his desk. 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


99 


“ Have you any thing to say ? ” demanded Squeers again ; 
giving his right arm two or three flourishes to try its power and 
suppleness. “ Stand a little out of the way, Mrs. Squeers, my 
dear ; IVe hardly got room enough.’^ 

“ Spare me, Sir,” cried Smike. 

“ Oh I that’s all, is it ? ” said Squeers. Yes, I’ll flog you 
within an inch of your life, and spare you that.” 

“ Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Mrs. Squeers, “ that’s a good ’un.” 

I was driven to do it,” said Smike, faintly ; and casting 
another imploring look about him. 

“ Driven to do it, were you,” said Squeers. 

“ Oh ! it wasn’t your fault ; it was mine, I suppose — 
eh?” 

“ A nasty, ungrateful, pig-headed, brutish, obstinate, sneak- 
ing dog,” exclaimed Mrs. Squeers, taking Smike’s head under 
her arm, and administering a cuff at every epithet ; “what does 
he mean by that ? ” 

“ Stand aside, my dear,” replied Squeers, “ we’ll try and 
find out.” 

Mrs. Squeers being out of breath with her exertions, com- 
plied. Squeers caught the boy firmly in his grip ; one desper- 
ate cut had fallen on his body — he was wincing from the lash 
and uttering a scream of pain — it was raised again, and again 
about to fall — when Nicholas Nickleby suddenly starting up, 
cried “ Stop ! ” in a voice that made the rafters ring. 

“ Who cried stop ? ” said Squeers, turning savagely round. 

“ I,” said Nicholas, stepping forward. “ This must not 
go on.” 

“ Must not go on ! ” cried Squeers, almost in a shriek. 

“ No ! ” thundered Nicholas. 

Aghast and stupefied by the boldness of the interference, 
Squeers released his hold of Smike, and falling back a pace or 
two, gazed upon Nicholas with looks that were positively 
frightful. 


100 


DOTHEBOT8 HALL. 


‘‘ I say must not,” repeated Nicholas, nothing daunted ; 
“shall not I will prevent it” 

Squeers continued to gaze upon him, with his eyes start- 
ing out of his head ; but astonishment had actually for the 
moment bereft him of speech. 

“You have disregarded all my quiet interference in the 
miserable lad’s behalf,” said Nicholas ; “returned no answer 
to the letter in which I begged forgiveness for him, and of- 
fered to be responsible that he would remain quietly here. 
Don’t blame me for this public interference. You have brought 
it upon yourself ; not I.” 

“ Sit down, beggar ! ” screamed Squeers, almost beside 
himself with rage, and seizing Smike as he spoke. ' 

“Wretch,” rejoined Nicholas, fiercely, “touch him at your 
peril ! I will not stand by and see it done ; my blood is up, 
and I have the strength of ten such men as you. Look to 
yourself, for by Heaven I will not spare you if you drive me 
on.” 

“ Stand back,” cried Squeers, brandishing his weapon. 

“ I have a long series of insults to avenge,” said Nich- 
olas, flushed with passion ; “ and my indignation is aggra- 
vated by the dastardly cruelties practised on helpless infancy 
in this foul den. Have a care ; for if you do raise the devil 
within me, the consequences shall fall heavily upon your own 
head.” 

He had scarcely spoken when Squeers, in a violent out- 
break of wrath and with a cry like the howl of a wild beast, spat 
upon him, and struck him a blow across the face with his 
instrument of torture, which raised up a bar of livid flesh as it 
was inflicted. Smarting ‘with the agony of the blow, and con- 
centrating into that one moment all his feelings of rage, scorn, 
and indignation, Nicholas sprang upon him, wrested the wea- 
pon from his hand, and, pinning him by the throat, beat the 
ruffian till he roared for mercy. 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


101 


The boys — ^with the exception of Master Squeers, who, 
coming to his father’s assistance, harrassed the enemy in the 
rear — moved not hand or foot ; but Mrs. Squeers, with many 
shrieks for aid, hung on to the tail of her partner’s coat, and 
endeavored to drag him from his infuriated adversary ; while 
Miss Squeers, who had been peeping through the keyhole in 
expectation of a very different scene, darted in at the very be- 
ginning of the attack, and after launching a shower of ink- 
stands at the usher’s head, beat Nicholas to her heart’s con- 
tent, animating herself at every blow with the recollection of 
his having refused her proffered love, and thus imparting addi- 
tional strength to an arm which (as she took after her mother 
in this respect) was at no time one of the weakest. 

Nicholas, in the full torrent of his violence, felt the blows 
no more than if they had been dealt with feathers ; but be- 
coming tired of the noise and uproar, and feeling that his arm 
grew weak besides, he threw all his remaining strength into 
half-a-dozen finishing cuts, and flung Squeers from him with 
all the force he could muster. The violence of his fall precip- 
itated Mrs. Squeers completely over an adjacent form, and 
Squeers, striking his head against it in his descent, lay at his 
full length on the ground, stunned and motionless. 

Having brought affairs to this happy termination, and as- 
certained to his thorough satisfaction that Squeers was only 
stunned, and not dead (upon which point he had some un- 
pleasant doubts at first), Nicholas left his family to restore 
him, and retired to consider what course he had better adopt. 
He looked anxiously round for Smike as he left the room, but 
he was nowhere to be seen. 

After a brief consideration, he packed up a few clothes in a 
small leathern valise, and finding that nobody offered to op- 
pose his progress, marched boldly out by the front door, and 
shortly afterwards struck into the road which led to the Greta 
Bridge. 



\ 


102 


BOTHEBOYS HALL. 


When he had cooled sufficiently to be enabled to give his 
present circumstances some little reflection, they did not ap- 
pear in a very encouraging light, for he had only four shillings 
and a few pence in his pocket, and was something more than 
two hundred and fifty miles from London, whither he resolved 
to direct his steps, that he might ascertain, among other 
things, what account of the morning’s proceedings Mr. Squeers 
transmitted to his most affectionate uncle. 

Lifting up his eyes, as he arrived at the conclusion that 
there was no remedy for this unfortunate state of things, he be- 
held a horseman coming towards him, whom, on his nearer ap- 
proach, he discovered, to his infinite chagrin, to be no other 
than Mr. John Browdie, who, clad in cords and leather leg- 
gings, was urging his animal forward by means of a thick ash 
stick, which seemed to have been recently cut from some stout 
sapling. 

“ I am in no mood for more noise and riot,” thought Nich- 
olas, “ and yet, do what I will, I shall have an altercation with 
this honest blockhead, and perhaps a blow or two from yonder 
staff.” 

In truth there appeared some reason to expect that such a 
result would follow from the encounter, for John Browdie no 
sooner saw Nicholas advancing than he reined in his horse bv 
the footpath, and waited until such time as he should come up ; 
looking meanwhile very sternly between the horse’s ears at 
Nicholas, as he came on at his leisure. 

“ Servant, young genelman,” said John. 

“ Yours,” said Nicholas. 

“ Weel j we ha’ met at last,” observed John, making the 
stirrup ring under a smart touch of the ash stick. 

“Yes,” replied Nicholas, hesitating. “Come!” he said, 
frankly, after a moment’s pause, “ we parted on no very good 
terms the last time we met ; it was my fault, I believe ; but I 
had no intention of offending you, and no idea that I was do- 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


103 


ing so. I was very sorry for it afterwards. Will you shake 
hands ? ” 

“ Shake bonds ! ” cried the good-humored Yorkshireman ; 
ah ! that I wee! ; ” at the same time, he bent down from 
the saddle, and gave Nicholas’s fist a huge wrench: “but wa’at 
be the matther wi’ thy feace, mun ? it be all brokken loike.” 

“ It is a cut,” said Nicholas, turning scarlet as he spoke, — “ a 
blow ; but I returned it to the giver, and with good interest too.” 

“Noa, did’ee though?” exclaimed John Browdie. ‘‘Well 
deane ! I loike ’un for thot.” 

“ The fact is,” said Nicholas, not very well knowing how to 
make the avowal, “ the fact is, that I have been ill-treated.” 

“ Noa ! ” interposed John Browdie, in a tone of compas- 
sion ; for he was a giant in strength and stature, and Nicholas, 
very likely, in his eyes, seemed a mere dwarf ; “ dean’t say 
thot.” 

“Yes, I have,” replied Nicholas, “ by that man Squeers, 
and I have beaten him soundly, and am leaving this place 
in consequence.” 

“ What ! ” cried John Browdie, with such an ecstatic shout 
that the horse quite shied at it. “ Beatten the schoolmeasther ? 
Ho ! ho ! ho ! Beatten the schoolmeasther ! who ever heard 
o’ the loike o’ that noo ! Giv’ us thee bond agean, yoongster. 
Beatten the schoolmeasther ! Dang it, I loove thee for’t.” 

With these expressions of delight, John Browdie laughed 
and laughed again— so loud that the echoes, far and wide, sent 
back nothing but jovial peals of merriment — and shook Nicho- 
las by the hand meanwhile, no less heartily. When his mirth 
had subsided, he inquired what Nicholas meant to do; on 
his informing him to go straight to London, he shook his 
head doubtfully, and inquired if he knew how much the coaches 
charged to carry passengers so far. 

“ No, I do not,” said Nicholas ; “ but it is of no great con- 
sequence to me, for I intend walking.” 



104 


IX)THEBOYS HALL. 


“Gang awa’ to Lunnum afoot! ” cried John in amazement 

“ Every step of the way,” replied Nicholas. “ I should be 
many steps further on by this time, and so good-bye 1” 

“ Nay noo,” replied the honest countryman, reining in his 
impatient horse, “ stan’ still, tellee. Hoo much cash hast thee 
gotten ? ” 

“Not much,” said Nicholas, coloring, “but I can make it 
enough. Where there’s a will there’s a way, you know.” 

John Browdie made no verbal answer to this remark, but 
putting his hand in his pocket, pulled out an old purse of 
soiled leather, and insisted that Nicholas should borrow from 
him whatever he required for his present necessities. 

“ Dean’t be afeard, mun,” he said ; “ tak’ eneaf to carry thee 
whoam. Thee’’lt pay me yan day, a’ warrant.” 

Nicholas could by no means be prevailed upon to borrow 
more than a sovereign, with which loan Mr. Browdie, after 
many entreaties that he would accept of more (observing, with 
a touch of Yorkshire caution, that if he didn’t spend it all, he 
could put the surplus by till he had an opportunity of remit- 
ting it carriage free), was fain to content himself. 

“ Tak’ that bit o’ timber to help thee on wi’ mun,” he added, 
pressing his stick on Nicholas, and giving his hand another 
squeeze ; “ keep a good heart, and bless thee. Beatten the 
schoolmeasther ! ’Cod, it’s the best thing a’ve heerd this twen- 
ty year ! ” 

So saying, and indulging, with more delicacy than might 
have been expected from him, in another series of loud laughs, 
for the purpose of avoiding the thanks which Nicholas poured 
forth, John Browdie set spurs to his horse, and went off at a 
smart canter ; looking back, from time to time, as Nicholas 
stood gazing after him, and waving his hand cheerily, as if to 
encourage him on his way. Nicholas watched the horse and 
rider until they disappeared over the brow of a distant hill, and 
then set forward on his journey. 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


105 


He did not travel far that afternoon, for by this time it was 
nearly dark, and there had been a heavy fall of snow, which 
not only rendered the way toilsome, but the track uncertain and 
difficult to find, after daylight, save by experienced wayfarers. 
He lay, that night, at a cottage where beds were let at a cheap 
rate to the more humble class of travellers ; and, rising betimes 
next morning, made his way before night to Boroughbridge. 
Passing through that town in search of some cheap resting- 
place, he stumbled upon an empty barn within a couple of hun- 
dred yards of the road side ; in a warm corner of which he 
stretched his weary limbs, and soon fell asleep. 

When he awoke next morning, and tried to recollect his 
dreams, which had been all connected with his recent sojourn 
at Dotheboys Hall, he sat up, rubbed his eyes, and stared — 
not with the most composed countenance possible — at some 
motionless object which seemed to be stationed within a few 
yards in front of him. 

“ Strange ! ” cried Nicholas ; “ can this be some lingering 
creation of the visions that have scarcely left me ! It cannot 
be real — and yet I — I am awake. Smike ! ” 

The form moved, rose, advanced, and dropped upon its 
knees at his feet. It was Smike indeed. 

“ Why do you kneel to me ? ” said Nicholas, hastily raising 
him. 

“ To go with you — anywhere — everywhere — to the world’s 
end — to the church-yard grave,” replied Smike, clinging to his 
hand."^ ‘‘ Let me, oh do let me. You are my home — my kind 
friend — take me with you, pray.” 

“ I am a friend who can do little for you,” said Nicholas, 
kindly. “ How came you here ? ” 

He had followed him, it seemed ; had never lost sight of 
him all the way ; had watched while he slept, and when he 
halted for refreshment ; and had feared to appear before lest 
he should be sent back. He had not intended to appear now, 
5 * 


106 


DOTHEBOYS HALL. 


but Nicholas had awakened more suddenly than he looked for, 
and he had no time to conceal himself. 

“ Poor fellow ! ” said Nicholas, “ your hard fate denies you 
any friend but one, and he is nearly as poor and helpless as 
yourself.^^ 

** May I — may I go with you ? ” asked Smike, timidly. ‘‘ I 
will be your faithful, hard-working servant, I will, indeed. I 
want no clothes,” added the poor creature, drawing his rags to- 
gether ; “ these will do very well. I only want to be near 
you.” 

“ And you shall,” cried Nicholas. “ And the world shall 
deal by you as it does by me, till one or both of us shall quit 
it for a better. Come.” 

With these words he strapped his burden on his shoulders, 
and taking his stick in one hand, extended the other to his 
delighted charge, and so they passed out of the old barn to- 
gether. 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLIMBEE’S. 


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THE SCHOOL AT HE. BLIMBEE’S. 


[from "DOMBET & SON.”] 


CHAPTER 1. 



HENEVER a young gentleman was taken in hand by 


V V Dr. Blimber, he might consider himself sure of a pret- 
ty tight squeeze. The doctor only undertook the charge of 
ten young gentlemen, but he had, always ready, a supply of 
learning for a hundred, on the lowest estimate ; and it was at 
once the business and delight of his life to gorge the unhappy 
ten with it. 

In fact. Doctor Blimber’s establishment was a great hot- 
house, in which there was a forcing apparatus incessantly at 
work. All the boys blew before their time. Mental green- 
peas were produced at Christmas, and intellectual asparagus 
all the year round. Mathematical gooseberries (very sour ones 
too) were common at untimely seasons, and from mere sprouts 
of bushes, under Doctor Blimber’s cultivation. Every descrip- 
tion of Greek and Latin vegetable was got off the driest twigs 
of boys, under the frostiest circumstances. Nature was of no 
consequence at all. No matter what a young gentlemen was 
intended to bear. Doctor Blimber made him bear to pattern, 
somehow or other. 

This was all very pleasant and ingenious, but the system 
of forcing was attended with its usual disadvantages. There 


110 THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBER’s. 

was not the right taste about the premature productions, and 
they didn’t keep well. Moreover, one young gentleman, with 
a swollen nose and an excessively large head (the oldest of 
the ten who had “gone through ” every thing), suddenly left 
off blowing one day, and remained in the establishment a mere 
stalk. And people did say that the Doctor had rather over- 
done it with young Toots, and that when he began to have 
whiskers he left off having brains. 

There young Toots was, at any rate ; possessed of the 
gruffest of voices and the shrillest of minds ; sticking orna- 
mental pins into his shirt, and keeping a ring in his waistcoat 
pocket to put on his little finger by stealth, when the pupils 
went out walking ; constantly falling in love by sight with 
nursery-maids, who had no idea of his existence ; and looking 
at the gas-lighted world over the little iron bars in the left- 
hand corner window of the front three pairs of stairs, after 
bedtime, like a greatly overgrown cherub w'ho had sat up aloft 
much too long. 

The Doctor was a portly gentleman in a suit of black, with 
strings at his knees, and stockings below them. He had a 
bald head, highly polished, a deep voice, and a chin so very 
double that it was a wonder how he ever managed to shave 
into the creases. He had likewise a pair of little eyes that 
were always half shut up, and a mouth that was always half 
expanded into a grin, as if he had that moment posed a boy 
and were waiting to convict him from his own lips. Inso- 
much, that when the Doctor put his right hand into the breast 
of his coat, and with his other hand behind him, and a scarce- 
ly perceptible wag of his head, made the commonest observa- 
tion to a nervous stranger, it was like a sentiment from the 
sphynx, and settled his business. 

The Doctor’s was a mighty fine house, fronting the sea. 
Not a joyful style of house within, but quite the contrary. 
Sad-colored curtains, whose proportions were spare and lean, 




Ill 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBEr’s. 

hid themselves despondently behind the windows. The tables 
and chairs were put away in rows, like figures in a sum ; fires 
were so rarely lighted in the rooms of ceremony, that they felt 
like wells, and a visitor represented the bucket ; the dining- 
room seemed the last place in the world where any eating or 
drinking was likely to occur ; there was no sound through all 
the house but the ticking of the great clock in the hall, which 
made itself audible in the very garrets ; and sometimes a dull 
crying of young gentlemen at their lessons, like the murmur- 
ings of an assemblage of melancholy pigeons. 

Miss Blimber, too, although a slim and graceful maid, did 
no soft violence to the gravity of the house. There was no 
light nonsense about Miss Blimber. She kept her hair short 
and crisp, and wore spectacles. She was dry and sandy with 
working in the graves of deceased languages. None of your 
live languages for Miss Blimber. They must be dead — stone 
dead — and then Miss Blimber dug them up like a Ghoul. 

Mrs. Blimber, her mamma, was not learned herself, but 
she pretended to be, and that did quite as well. She said at 
evening parties, that if she could have known Cicero, she 
thought she could have died contented. It was the steady joy 
of her life to see the Doctor’s young gentlemen go out walk- 
ing, unlike all other young gentlemen, in the largest possible 
shirt-collars, and the stiffest possible cravats. It was so clas- 
sical, she said. 

As to Mr. Feeder, B. A., Dr. Blimber’s assistant, he was a 
kind of human barrel-organ, with a little list of tunes at which 
he was continually working, over and over again, without any 
variation. He might have been fitted up with a change of 
barrels, perhaps, in early life, if his destiny had been favorable ; 
but it had not been ; and he had only one, with which, in a 
monotonous round, it was his occupation to bewilder the young 
ideas of Dr. Blimber’s young gentlemen. The young gentle- 
men were prematurely full of carking anxieties. They knew 


112 


THE SCHOOL AT DK. BLIMBER S. 


no rest from the pursuit of stony-hearted verbs, savage noun- 
substantives, inflexible syntactic passages, and ghosts of exer- 
cises that appeared to them in their dreams. Under the forc- 
ing system, a young gentleman usually took leave of his spirits 
in three weeks. He had all the cares of the world on his head 
in three months. He conceived bitter sentiments against his 
parents or guardians in four ; he was an old misanthrope in 
five ; envied Curtius that blessed refuge in the earth in six ; 
and at the end of the first twelvemonth had arrived at the con- 
clusion, from which he never afterwards departed, that all the 
fancies of the poets, and lessons of the sages, were a mere collec- 
tion of words and grammar, and had no other meaning in the 
world. 

But he went on blow, blow, blowing, in the Doctor’s hot- 
house, all the time; and the Doctor’s glory and reputation 
were great, when he took his wintry growth home to his rela- 
tions and friends. 

Upon the Doctor’s door steps one day, Paul stood with a 
fluttering heart, and with his small right hand in his father’s. 
His other hand was locked in that of Florence. How tight 
the tiny pressure of that one, and how loose and cold the 
other ! 

Mrs. Pipchin hovered behind the victim, with her sable 
plumage and her hooked beak, like a bird of ill-omen. She 
was out of breath — for Mr. Dombey, full of great thoughts, had 
walked fast — and she croaked hoarsely as she waited for the 
opening of the door. 

“ Now, Paul,” said Mr. Dombey, exultingly. “ This is the 
way indeed to be Dombey and Son, and have money. You are 
almost a man already.” 

“ Almost,” returned the child. 

Even his childish agitation could not master the sly and 
quaint yet touching look with which he accompanied the- re- 
ply. 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLOIBEr’s. 


113 


It brought a vague expression of dissatisfaction into Mr. 
Dombey’s face; but the door being opened, it was quickly 
gone. 

“ Doctor Blimber is at home, I believe ? ” said Mr. Dombey. 

The man said yes ; and as they passed in, looked at Paul 
as if he were a little mouse and the house were a trap. He 
was a weak-eyed young man, with the first faint streaks or 
early dawn of a grin on his countenance. It was mere imbe- 
cility ; but Mrs. Pipchin took it into her head that it was im- 
pudence, and made a snap at him directly. 

“ How dare you laugh behind the gentleman’s back ? ” said 
Mrs. Pipchin. “ And what do you take me for ? ” 

“ I ain’t a laughing at nobody, and I’m sure I don’t take 
you for nothing. Ma’am,” returned the young man in conster- 
nation. 

“ A pack of idle dogs ! ” said Mrs. Pipchin, “ only fit to be 
turnspits. Go and tell your master that Mr. Dombey’s here, 
or it’ll be worse for you ! ” 

The weak-eyed young man went, very meekly, to discharge 
himself of this commission ; and soon came back to invite 
them to the Doctor’s study. 

“ You’re laughing again. Sir,” said Mrs. Pipchin, when it 
came to her turn, bringing up the rear, to pass him in the hall. 

I ain't , returned the young man, grievously oppressed. 
“ I never see such a thing as this ! ” 

“ What is the matter, Mrs. Pipchin ? ” said Mr. Dombey, 
looking round. “ Softly ! Pray ! ” 

Mrs. Pipchin, in her deference, merely muttered at the 
young man as she passed on, and said, “ Oh ! he was a pre- 
cious fellow ” — leaving the young man, who was all meekness 
and incapacity, affected even to tears by the incident. But Mrs. 
Pipchin had a way of falling foul of all meek people ; and her 
friends said who could wonder at it, after the Peruvian mines ? 

The Doctor was sitting in his portentous study, with a 


114 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBER’s. 


globe at each knee, books all round him, Homer over the door, 
and Minerva on the mantel-shelf. And how do you do, Sir ? ” 
he said to Mr. Dombey; “and how is my little friend?” 
Grave as an organ was the Doctor’s speech ; and when he 
ceased the great clock in the hall seemed (to Paul at least) to 
take him up, and go on saying, “how, is, my, lit, tie, friend? 
how, is, my, lit, tie, friend ? ” over and over and over again. 

The little friend being something too small to be seen at 
all from where the Doctor sat, over the books on his table, the 
Doctor made several futile attempts to get a view of him round 
the legs ; which Mr. Dombey perceiving, relieved the Doctor 
from his embarrassment by taking Paul up in his arms and 
sitting him on another little table, over against the Doctor, in 
the middle of the room. 

“ Ha ! ” said the Doctor, leaning back in his chair with his 
hand in his breast. “ Now I see my little friend. How do 
you do, my little friend ? ” 

The clock in the hall wouldn’t subscribe to this alteration 
in the form of words, but continued to repeat “ how, is, my, lit, 
tie, friend ? how, is, my, lit, tie, friend ? ” 

“Very well, I thank you. Sir,” returned Paul, answering the 
clock quite as much as the Doctor. 

“ Ha ! ” said Dr. Blimber. “ Shall we make a man of 
him ? ” 

“ Do you hear, Paul ? ” added Mr. Dombey ; Paul being si- 
lent. 

“ Shall we make a man of him ? ” repeated the Doctor. 

“ I had rather be a child,” replied Paul. 

“ Indeed ! ” said the Doctor. “ Why ? ” 

. The child sat on the table looking at him with a curious 
expression of suppressed emotion in his face, and beating one 
hand proudly on his knee as if he had the rising tears beneath 
it, and crushed them. But his other hand strayed a little way 
the while, a little farther — farther from him yet — until it light- 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. ELBIBEr’s. 


115 


ed on the neck of Florence. “ This is why,” it seemed to say, 
and then the steady look was broken up and gone, the work- 
ing lip was loosened, and the tears came streaming forth. 

“ Mrs. Pipchin,” said his father, in a querulous manner, 
“ I am really very sorry to see this.” 

“ Come away from him, do. Miss Dombey,” quoth the 
matron. 

“ Never mind,” said the Doctor, blandly nodding his head 
to keep Mrs. Pipchin back. “ Ne-ver mind ; we shall substi- 
tute new cares and new impressions, Mr. Dombey, very short- 
ly. You would still wish my little friend to acquire — ” 

“ Every thing, if you please. Doctor,” returned Mr. Dombey, 
firmly. 

“ Yes,” said the Doctor, who, with his half-shut eyes and 
his usual smile, seemed to survey Paul with the sort of inter- 
est that might attach to some choice little animal he was go- 
ing to stuff. Yes, exactly. Ha ! We shall impart a great 
variety of information to our little friend, and bring him quick- 
ly forward, I dare say. I dare say. Quite a virgin soil, I be- 
lieve you said, Mr. Dombey? ” 

“ Except some ordinary preparations at home, and from 
this lady,” replied Mr. Dombey, introducing Mrs. Pipchin, 
who instantly communicated a rigidity to her whole muscular 
system and snorted defiance beforehand, in case the Doctor 
should disparage her ; “ except so far Paul has, as yet, applied 
himself to no studies at all.” 

Dr. Blimber inclined his head in gentle tolerance of such 
insignificant poaching as Mrs. Pipchin’s, and said he was glad 
to hear it. It was much more satisfactory, he observed, rub- 
bing his hands, to begin at the foundation. And again he leer- 
ed at Paul, as if he would have liked to tackle him with the 
Greek alphabet on the spot. 

“That circumstance, indeed. Doctor Blimber,” pursued 
Mr. Dombey, glancing at his little son, “ and the interview I 


116 THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLIMBEr’s. 

have already had the pleasure of holding with you, renders any 
further explanation, and consequently any further intrusion on 
your valuable time, so unnecessary, that — ” 

^‘Now, Miss Dombey,” said the acid Pipchin. 

Permit me,” said the Doctor, one moment. Allow me 
to present Mrs. Blimber and my daughter, who will be associ- 
ated with the domestic life of our young Pilgrim to Parnassus. 
Mrs. Blimber,” for the lady, who had perhaps been in wait- 
ing, opportunely entered, followed by her daughter, that fair 
Sexton in spectacles, “Mr. Dombey. My daughter Cornelia, 
Mr. Dombey. Mr. Dombey, my love,” pursued the Doctor, 
turning to his wife, “ is so confiding as to — do you see our 
little friend? ” 

Mrs. Blimber, in an excess of politeness, of which Mr. 
•Dombey was the object, apparently did not, for she was back- 
ing against the little friend and very much endangering his 
position on the table. But on this hint she turned to ad- 
mire his classical and intellectual lineaments, and turning 
again to Mr. Dombey, said, with a sigh, that she envied his 
dear son. 

“ Like a bee. Sir,” said Mrs. Blimber, with uplifted eyes, 
“ about to plunge into a garden of the choicest flowers and 
sip the sweets for the first time. Virgil, Horace, Ovid, Ter- 
ence, Plautus, Cicero. What a world of honey have we here ! 
It may appear remarkable, Mr. Dombey, in one who is a wife 
— the wife of such a husband — ” 

“ Hush, hush,” said Dr. Blimber. “ Fie for shame.” 

“ Mr. Dombey will forgive the partiality of a wife,” said 
Mrs. Blimber, with an engaging smile. 

Mr. Dombey answered “ Not at all ;” applying those words, 
it is to be presumed, to the partiality, and not to the forgive- 
ness. 

“And it may seem remarkable in one who is a mother 
also,” resumed Mrs. Blimber. 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLBrBER’s. 


117 


“And such a mother,” observed Mr. Dombey, bowing 
with some confused idea of being complimentary to Cornelia. 

“ But really,” pursued Mrs. Blimber, “ I think if I could 
have known Cicero, and been his friend, and talked with him 
in his retirement at Tusculum (beautiful Tusculum !), I could 
have died contented.” 

A learned enthusiasm is so very contagious, that Mr. 
Dombey half believed this was exactly his case; and even 
Mrs. Pipchin, who was not, as we have seen, of an accom- 
modating disposition generally, gave utterance to a little sound 
between a groan and a sigh, as if she would have said that 
nobody but Cicero could have proved a lasting consolation 
under that failure of the Peruvian mines, but that he indeed 
would have been a, very Davy-lamp of refuge. 

Cornelia looked at Mr. Dombey through her spectacles, 
as if she would have liked to crack a few quotations with 
him from the authority in question. But this design, if she 
entertained it, was frustrated by a knock at the room door. 

“ Who is that ? ” said the Doctor. “ Oh ! Come in. Toots ; 
come in. Mr. Dombey, Sir.” Toots bowed. “ Quite a co- 
incidence ! ” said Dr. Blimber. “ Here we have the begin- 
ning and the end. Alpha and Omega. Our head boy, Mr. 
Dombey.” 

The Doctor might have called him their head-and-shoul- 
ders boy, for he was at least that much taller than any of the 
rest. He blushed very much at finding himself among stran- 
gers, and chuckled aloud. 

“ An addition to our little Portico, Toots,” said the Doctor ; 
“ Mr Dombey’s son.” 

Young Toots blushed again ; and finding, from a solemn 
silence which prevailed, that he was expected to say something, 
said to Paul, “ How are you ?” in a voice so deep and a man- 
ner so sheepish that if a lamb had roared it couldn’t have been 
more surprising. 


118 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBEE S. 


“Ask Mr. Feeder, if you please, Toots,” said the Doctor, 
“ to prepare a few introductory volumes for Mr. Dombey’s son, 
and to allot him a convenient seat for study. My dear, I be- 
lieve Mr. Dombey has not seen the dormitories.” 

“ If Mr. Dombey will walk up-stairs,” said Mrs. Blimber, 
“ I shall be more than proud to show him the dominions of the 
drowsy god.” 

With that Mrs. Blimber, who was a lady of great suavity 
and a wiry figure, and who wore a cap composed of sky-blue 
materials, proceeded up-stairs with Mr. Dombey and Cornelia ; 
Mrs. Pipchin following, and looking out sharp for her enemy 
the footman. 

While they were gone, Paul sat upon the table holding 
Florence by the hand, and glancing timidly from the Doctor 
round and round the room, while the Doctor, leaning back in 
his chair, with his hand in his breas't as usual, held a bock 
from him at arm’s length and read. I'here was something very 
awful in this manner of reading. It was such a determined, 
unimpassioned, inflexible, cold-blooded way of going to work. 
It left the Doctor’s countenance exposed to view ; and when 
the Doctor smiled auspiciously at his author, or knit his brows, 
or shook his head and made wry faces at him, as much as to 
say, “ Don’t tell me. Sir ; I know better,” it was terrific. 

Toots, too, had no business to be outside the door, osten- 
tatiously examining the wheels in his watch, and counting his 
half-crowns. But that didn’t last long ; for Dr. Blimber hap- 
pening to change the position of his tight plump legs, as if he 
were going to get up. Toots swiftly vanished and appeared no 
more. 

Mr. Dombey and his conductress were soon heard coming 
down-stairs again, talking all the way ; and presently they re- 
entered the Doctor’s study. 

“ I hope, Mr. Dombey,” said the Doctor, laying down his 
book, “ that the arrangements meet your approval.” 


THE SCHOOL AT DK. BLIMBEe’s. 


119 


“ They are excellent, Sir,” said Mr. Dombey. 

‘‘Very fair, indeed,” said Mrs. Pipchin, in a low voice; 
never disposed to give too much encouragement. 

“ Mrs. Pipchin,” said Mr. Dombey, wheeling round, “ will, 
with your permission. Doctor and Mrs. Blimber, visit Paul now 
and then.” 

“ Whenever Mrs. Pipchin pleases,” observed the Doctor. 

“ Always happy to see her,” said Mrs. Blimber. 

“ I think,” said Mr. Dombey, “ I have given all the trouble 
I need, and may take my leave. Paul, my child,” he went 
close to him as he sat upon the table, “ Good-by.” 

“ Good-by, Papa.” 

The limp and careless little hand that Mr. Dombey took 
in his was singularly out of keeping with the wistful face. But 
he had no part in its sorrowful expression. It was not ad- 
dressed to him. No, no. To Florence — all to Florence. 

If Mr. Dombey, in his insolence of wealth, had ever made 
an enemy hard to appease and cruelly vindictive in his hate, 
even such an enemy might have received the pang that wrung his 
proud heart then, as compensation for his injury. 

He bent down over his boy and kissed him. If his sight 
were dimmed as he did so by something that for a moment 
blurred the little face and made it indistinct to him, his men- 
tal vision may have been, for that short time, the clearer per- 
haps. 

“ I shall see you soon, Paul. You are free on Saturdays 
and Sundays, you know.” 

“ Yes, Papa,” returned Paul ; looking at his sister. “ On 
Saturdays and Sundays.” 

“ And you’ll try and learn a great deal here, and be a clev- 
er man,” said Mr. Dombey ; “ won’t you ? ” 

“ I’ll try,” returned the child wearily. 

“ And you’ll soon be grown up now ! ” said Mr. Dombey. 

“ Oh ! very soon ! replied the child. Once more the old. 


120 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLIMBEE 8. 


old look, passed rapidly across his features like a strange 
light. It fell on Mrs. Pipchin, and extinguished itself in her 
black dress. That excellent ogress stepped forward to take 
leave and to bear off Florence, which she had long been thirst- 
ing to do. The move on her part roused Mr. Dombey, whose 
eyes were fixed on Paul. After patting him on the head and 
pressing his small hand again, he took leave of Doctor Blim- 
ber, Mrs. Elimber, and Miss Blimber, with his usual polite 
frigidity, and walked out of the study. 

Despite his entreaty that they would not think of stirring. 
Doctor Blimber, Mrs. Blimber, and Miss Blimber all pressed 
forward to attend him to the hall ; and thus Mrs. Pipchin got 
into a state of entanglement with Miss Blimber and the Doctor, 
and was crowded out of the study before she could clutch Flor- 
ence. To which happy accident Paul stood afterwards indebt- 
ed for the dear remembrance that Florence ran back to throw 
her arms round his neck, and that hers was the last face in the 
doorway ; turned towards him with a smile of encouragement, 
the brighter for the tears through which it beamed. 

It made his childish bosom heave and swell when it was 
gone ; and sent the globes, the books, blind Homer and Miner- 
va, swimming round the room. But they stopped, all of a sud- 
den ; and then he heard the loud clock in the hall still grave- 
ly inquiring, “ how, is, my, lit, tie, friend ? how, is, my, lit, tie, 
friend ? ” as it had done before. 

He sat, with folded hands, upon his pedestal, silently lis- 
tening. But he might have answered, “ weary, weary ! very 
lonely, very sad ! ” And there, with an aching void in his 
young heart, and all outside so cold, and bare, and strange, 
Paul sat as if he had taken life unfurnished, and the uphol- 
sterer were never coming. 

After the lapse of some minutes, which appeared an im- 
mense time to little Paul Dombey on the table, Doctor Blim- 
ber came back. The Doctor’s walk was stately, and calcula- 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIilBER’s, 


121 


ted to impress the juvenile mind with solemn feelings. It was 
a sort of march ; but when the Doctor put out his right foot, he 
gravely turned upon his axis with a sort of semicircular sweep 
towards the left ; and when he put out his left foot, he turned 
in the same manner towards the right. So that he seemed, at 
every stride he took, to look about him as though he were 
saying, “ Can anybody have the goodness to indicate any sub- 
ject, in any direction, on which I am uninformed ? I rather 
think not.” 

Mrs. Blimber and Miss Blimber came back in the Doctor’s 
company ; and the Doctor, lifting his new pupil off the table, 
delivered him over to Miss Blimber. 

“ Cornelia,” said the Doctor, “ Dombey will be your charge 
at first. Bring him on, Cornelia, bring him on.” 

Miss Blimber received her young ward from the Doctor’s 
hands ; and Paul, feeling that the spectacles were surveying 
him, cast down his eyes. 

“ How old are you, Dombey ? ” said Miss Blimber. 

“ Six,” answered Paul, wondering, as he stole a glance at 
the young lady, why her hair didn’t grow long like Florence’s, 
and why she was like a boy. 

“ How much do you know of your Latin Grammar, Dom- 
bey ? ” said Miss Blimber. 

“ None of it,” answered Paul. Feeling that the answer 
was a shock to Miss Blimber’s sensibility, he looked up at the 
three faces that were looking down at him, and said : 

“ I haven’t been well. I have been a weak child. I couldn’t 
learn a Latin Grammar when I was out every day with old 
Glubb. I wish you’d tell old Glubb to come and see me, if 
you please ? ” 

“ What a dreadful low name ! ” said Mrs. Blimber. “ Un- 
classical to a degree ! Who is the monster, child ? ” 

“ What monster ? ” inquired Paul. 

“ Glubb,” said Mrs. Blimber, with a great disrelish. 

6 


122 THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLBIBEE^S. 

“ He’s no more monster than you are,” returned Paul. 

“ What ! ” cried the Doctor, in a terrible voice. “ Aye, aye, 
aye ? Aha ! What’s that ? ” 

Paul was dreadfully frightened ; but still he made a stand 
for the absent Glubb, though he did it trembling. 

“ He’s a very nice old man, Ma’am,” he said. He used 
to draw my couch. He knows all about the deep sea, and 
the fish that are in it, and the great monsters that come and 
lie on rocks in the sun, and dive into the water again when 
they’re startled, blowing and splashing so that they can be 
heard for miles. There are some creatures,” said Paul, 
warming with his subject, “I don’t know how many yards 
long, and I forget their names, but Florence knows, that pre*. 
tend to be in distress, and when a man goes near them, 
out of compassion, they open their great jaws and attack him. 
But all he has got to do,” said Paul, boldly tendering this in- 
formation to the very Doctor himself, “ is to keep on turning 
as he runs away, and then, as they turn slowly, because they 
are so long, and can’t bend, he’s sure to beat them. And 
though old Glubb don’t know why the sea should make me 
think of my Mamma that’s dead, or v/hat it is that it is always 
saying — always saying ! he knows a great deal about it. And 
I wish,” the child concluded, with a sudden falling of his 
countenance and failing in his animation, as he looked like 
one forlorn upon the three strange faces, ^’that you’d let old 
Glubb come here to see me, for I know him very well, and he 
knows me.” 

“Ha!” said the Doctor, shaking his head, “this is bad, 
but study will do much.” 

Mrs. Blimber opined, with something like a shiver, that he 
was an unaccountable child ; and allowing for the difference 
of visage, looked at him pretty much as Mrs, Pipchin had 
been used to do. 

“Take him round the house, Cornelia,” said the Doctor, 


THE 6CH00L AT DE. BLI:MBER'*8. 


123 


“ and familiarize him with his new sphere. Go with that 
young lady, Dombey.” 

Dombey obeyed, giving his hand to the abstruse Cornelia, 
and looking at her sideways, with timid curiosity, as they 
went away together, For her spectacles, by reason of the 
glistening of the glasses, made her so mysterious, that he 
didn’t know where she was looking, and was not indeed quite 
sure that she had any eyes at all behind them. 

Cornelia took him first to the school-room, which was situ- 
ated at the back of the hall, and was approached through two 
baize doors, which deadened and muffled the young gentle- 
men’s voices. Here, there were eight or ten young gentlemen 
in various stages of mental prostration, all very hard at work^ 
and very grave indeed. Toots, as an old hand, had a desk to 
himself in one corner, and a magnificent man, of immense 
age, he looked, in Paul’s young eyes, behind it. 

Mr. Feeder, B. A., who sat at another little desk, had his 
Virgil stop on, and was slowly grinding that tune to four 
young gentlemen. Of the remaining four, two, who grasped 
their foreheads convulsively, were engaged in solving mathe- 
matical problems ; one with his face like a dirty window, 
from much crying, was endeavoring to flounder through a 
hopeless num.ber of lines before dinner ; and one sat looking 
at his task in stony stupefaction and despair — which it 
seemed had been his condition ever since breakfast time. 

The appearance of a new boy did not create the sensation 
that might have been expected. Mr. Feeder, B. A, who was 
in the habit of shaving his head for coolness, and had nothing 
but little bristles on it, gave him a bony hand, and told him 
he was glad to see him — which Paul would have been very 
glad to have told him^ if he could have done so with the least 
sincerity. Then Paul, instructed by Cornelia, shook hands 
with the four young gentlemen at Mr Feeder’s desk ; then with 
the two young gentlemen at work on the problems, who were 


124 THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLIMBEr’s. 

very feverish ; then with the young gentleman at work against 
time, who was very inky ; and lastly with the young gentleman 
in a state of stupefaction, who was flabby and quite cold. 

Paul having been already introduced to Toots, that pupil 
merely chuckled and breathed hard, as his custom was, and 
pursued the occupation in which he was engaged. It was not 
a severe one ; for on account of his having “ gone through ” so 
much (in more senses than one), and also of his having, as be- 
fore hinted, left off blowing in his prime. Toots now had license 
to pursue his own course of study, which was chiefly to write 
long letters to himself from persons of distinction, addressed 
“ P. Toots, Esquire, Brighton, Sussex,” and to preserve them 
in his desk with great care. 

These ceremonies passed, Cornelia led Paul up-stairs to the 
top of the house, which was rather a slow journey on account 
of Paul being obliged to land both feet on every stair before 
he mounted another. But they reached their journey’s end at 
last ; and there, in a front room, looking over the wild sea, 
Cornelia showed him a nice little bed with white hangings, 
close to the window, on which there was already beautifully 
written on a card in round text — down strokes very thick, and 
up strokes very fine — Dombey ; while two other little bedsteads 
in the same room were announced, through like means, as 
respectively appertaining unto Briggs and Tozer. 

Just as they got down-stairs again into the hall, Paul saw 
the weak-eyed young man who had given that mortal offence 
to Mrs. Pipchin, suddenly seize a very large drumstick and fly 
at a gong that was hanging up as if he had gone mad or 
wanted vengeance. Instead of receiving warning, however, or 
being instantly taken into custody, the young man left off un- 
checked, after having made a dreadful noise. Then Cornelia 
Blimber said to Dombey that dinner would be ready in a quar- 
ter of an hour, and perhaps he had better go into the school- 
room among his “ friends.” 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBEr’s. 


125 


So Dombey, deferentially ‘passing the great clock which was 
still as anxious as ever to know how he found himself, opened 
the school-room door a very little way, and strayed in like a 
lost boy, shutting it after him with some difficulty. His friends 
were all dispersed about the room except the stony friend, who 
remained immovable. Mr. Feeder was stretching himself in 
h's gray gown, as if, regardless of expense, he was resolved to 
pull the sleeves off. 

“ Heigh ho hum ! ” cried Mr. Feeder, shaking himself like 
a cart-horse, “ Oh dear me, dear me ! Ya-a-a-ah ! ” 

Paul was quite alarmed by Mr. Feeder’s yawning; it was 
done on such a great scale, and he was so terribly in earnest. 
All the boys too (Toots excepted) seemed-knocked up, and 
were getting ready for dinner — some newly tying their neck- 
cloths, which were very stiff indeed, and others washing their 
hands or brushing their hair in an adjoining ante-chamber — 
as if they didn’t think they should enjoy it at all. 

Young Toots, who was ready beforehand, and had therefore 
nothing to do and had leisure to bestow upon Paul, said, with 
heavy good nature : 

“ Sit down, Dombey.” 

“ Thank you. Sir,” said Paul. 

His endeavoring to hoist himself on to a very high window- 
seat, and his slipping down again, appeared to prepare Toots’s 
mind for the reception of a discovery. 

“ You’re a very small chap,” said Mr. Toots. 

“ Yes, Sir, I’m small,” returned Paul. Thank you, 
Sir.” 

For Toots had lifted him into the seat, and done it kind- 
ly too. 

“ Wlio’s your tailor ? ” inquired Toots, after looking at him 
for some moments. 

“ It’s a woman that has made my clothes as yet,” said Paul. 

My sister’s dressmaker.” 


126 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLIMBEr’s. 


“ My tailor’s Burgess and CoV’ said Toots. “ Fash’nable. 
But very dear.” 

• Paul had wit enough to shake his head, as if he would have 
said it was easy to see that ; and indeed he thought so. 

“Your father’s regularly rich, ain’t he?” inquired Mr. 
Toots. 

“ Yes, Sir,” said Paul. “ He’s Dorabey and Son.” 

“And which?” demanded Toots. 

“ And Son, Sir,” replied Paul. 

Mr. Toots made one or two attempts, in a low voice, to fix 
the firm in his mind ; but not quite succeeding, said he would 
get Paul to mention the name again to-morrow morning, as it 
was rather important. And indeed he purposed nothing less 
than writing himself a private and confidential letter from 
Dombey and Son immediately.” 

By this time the other pupils (always excepting the stone 
boy) gathered round. 'Phey were polite, but pale ; and spoky 
low ; and they were so depressed in their spirits, that in com- 
parison with the general tone of that company. Master Bither- 
stone was a perfect Miller or complete Jest Book. And yet 
he had a sense of injury upon him, too, had Bitherstone. 

“ You sleep in my room, don’t you ? ” asked a solemn young 
gentleman, whose shirt-collar curled up the lobes of his ears. 

“Master Briggs?” inquired Paul. 

“ Tozer,” said the young gentleman. 

Paul answered yes ; and Tozer pointing out the stony pupil, 
said that was Briggs. Paul had already felt certain that it must 
be either Briggs or Tozer, though he didn’t know why. 

“Is yours a strong constitution?” inquired Tozer. 

Paul said he thought not. Tozer replied that he thought 
not also judging from Paul’s looks, and that it was a pity, for 
it need be. He then asked Paul if he were going to begin with 
Cornelia ; and on Paul saying “ yes,” all the young gentlemen 
(Briggs excepted) gave a low groan. 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBEr’s. 127 

It was drowned in the tintinnabulation of the gong, which 
sounding again with great fur}', there was a general move to- 
wards the dining-room ; still excepting Briggs the stony boy, 
who remained where he was, and as he was ; and on its way to 
whom Paul presently encountered a round of bread, genteelly 
served on a plate and napkin, and with a silver fork lying cross- 
wise on the top of it. 

Doctor Blimber was already in his place in the dining-room, 
at the top of the table, with Miss Blimber and Mrs. Blimber on 
either side of him. Mr. Feeder, in a*black coat, was at the bot- 
tom. Paul’s chair was next to Miss Blimber ; but it being found, 
when he sat in it, that his eyebrows were not much above the 
level of the table-cloth, some books were brought in from the 
Doctor’s study, on which he was elevated, and on which he al- 
ways sat from that time — carrying them in and out himself on 
after occasions, like a little elephant and castle. 

Grace having been said by the Doctor, dinner began. There 
was some nice soup, also roast meat, boiled meat, vegetables, 
pie, and cheese. Every young gentleman had a massive silver 
fork and a napkin ; and all the arrangements were stately and 
handsome. In particular, there was a butler in a blue coat and 
bright buttons, who gave quite a winey flavor to the table beer — 
he poured it out so superbly. 

Nobody spoke, unless spoken to, except Doctor Blimber, 
Mrs. Blimber, and Miss Blimber, who conversed occasionally. 
Whenever a young gentleman was not actually engaged with 
his knife and fork or spoon, his eye, with an irresistible attrac- 
tion, sought the eye of Doctor Blimber, Mrs. Blimber, or Miss 
Blimber, and modestly rested there. Toots appeared to be the 
only exception to this rule. He sat next Mr. Feeder, on Paul’s 
side of the table, and frequently looked behind and before the 
intervening boys to catch a glimpse of Paul. 

Only once during dinner was there any conversation that 
included the young gentlemen. It happened at the epoch of 


128 


THE SCHOOL AT DK. BLBEBEIi’s. 


the cheese, when the Doctor, having taken a glass of port ^vine, 
and hemmed twice or thrice, said : 

“ It is remarkable, Mr. Feeder, that the Romans — ” 

At the mention of this terrible people, their implacable 
enemies, every young gentleman fastened his gaze upon the 
Doctor, with an assumption of the deepest interest. One of 
the number who happened to be drinking, and who caught the 
Doctor’s eye glaring at him through the side of his tumbler, 
left off so hastily that he was convulsed for some moments, and 
in the sequel ruined Doctor Blimber’s point. 

“ It is remarkable, Mr. Feeder,” said the Doctor, beginning 
again slowly, “ that the Romans, in those gorgeous and profuse 
entertainments of which we read in the days of the emperors, 
when luxury had attained a height unknown before or since, 
and when whole provinces were ravaged to supply the splen- 
did means of one imperial banquet — ” 

Here the offender, who had been swelling and straining, 
and w'aiting in vain for a full stop, broke out violently. 

‘‘Johnson,” said Mr. Feeder, in a low reproachful voice, 
“take some water.” 

The Doctor, looking very stern, made a pause until the water 
was brought, and then resumed : 

“ And when, Mr. Feeder — ” 

But Mr. Feeder, who saw that Johnson must break out again, 
and who knew that the Doctor would never come to a period 
before the young gentlemen until he had finished all he meant 
to say, couldn’t keep his eye off Johnson ; and thus was caught 
in the fact of not looking at the Doctor, who consequently stop- 
ped. 

“ I beg your pardon. Sir,” said Mr. Feeder, reddening. “ I 
beg your pardon. Doctor Blimber.” 

“ And when,” said the Doctor, raising his voice, “ when. Sir, 
as we read, and have no reason to doubt — incredible as it may 
appear to the vulgar of our time — the brother of Vitellius pre- 


THE SCHOOL AT HE. BLIMBEk’s. 


129 


pared for him a feast, in which w^re served, of fish, two thou- 
sand dishes — ” 

“ Take some water, Johnson — dishes. Sir,” said Mr. Feeder. 

“ Of various sorts of fowl, five thousand dishes.” 

“ Or try a crust of bread,” said Mr. Feeder. 

“And one dish,” pursued Doctor Blimber, raising his 
voice still higher as he looked all round the table, “ called, 
from its enormous dimensions, the Shield of Minerva, and 
made among other costly ingredients, of the brains of pheas- 
ants — ” 

“ Ow, ow, ow ! ” (from Johnson.) 

“ Woodcocks — ” 

“ Ow, ow, ow ! ” 

“ The sounds of the fish called scari — ” 

“You’ll burst some vessel in 3^our head,” said Mr. Feeder. 

“ You had better let it come.” 

“ And the spawn of the lamprey, brought from the Car- 
pathian Sea,” pursued the Doctor, in his severest voice ; “ when 
we read of costly entertainments such as these, and still remem- 
ber that we have a Titus — ” 

“ What would be your mother’s feelings if you died of apo- 
plexy ! ” said Mr. Feeder. 

“ A Domitian — ” 

“ And you’re blue, you know,” said Mr. Feeder. 

“ A Nero, a Tiberius, a Caligula, a Heliogabalus, and 
many more,” pursued the Doctor ; “ it is, Mr. Feeder — if you 
are doing me the honor to attend — remarkable ; very — re- 
markable, Sir — ” 

But Johnson, unable to suppress it any longer, burst at 
that moment into such an overwhelming fit of coughing that,- 
although both his immediate neighbors thumped him on the 
back, and Mr. Feeder himself held a glass of water to his lips ; 
and the butler walked him up and down several times between 
his own chair and the sideboard, like a sentry, it Was full five 


130 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBEr’s. 


minutes before he was moderately composed, and then there 
was a profound silence, 

“ Gentlemen,” said Doctor Blimber, “ rise for Grace ! 
Cornelia, lift Dombey down ” — nothing of whom but his scalp 
was accordingly seen above the table-cloth. “Johnson will 
repeat to me to-morrow morning before breakfast, without book, 
and from the Greek Testament, the first chapter from the Epis- 
tle of Saint Paul to the Ephesians. We will resume our stud- 
ies, Mr. Feeder, in half an hour.” 

The young gentlemen bowed and withdrew. Mr. Feeder 
did likewise. During the half-hour, the young gentlemen, 
broken into pairs, loitered arm-in-arm up and down a small 
piece of ground behind the house, or endeavored to kindle a 
spark of animation in the breast of Briggs. But nothing hap- 
pened so vulgar as play. Punctually at the appointed time 
the gong was sounded, and the studies, under the joint auspices 
of Doctor Blimber and Mr. Feeder, were resumed. 

As the Olympic game of lounging up and down had been 
cut shorter than usual that day, on Johnson’s account, they all 
went out for a walk before tea. Even Briggs (though he 
hadn’t begun yet) partook of this dissipation ; in the enjoy- 
meijt of which he looked over the cliff two or three times dark- 
ly. Doctor Blimber accompanied them ; and Paul had the 
honor of being taken in tow by the Doctor himself, a distin- 
guished state of things, in which he looked very little and 
feeble. 

Tea was served in a style no less polite than the dinner ; 
and after tea the young gentleman, rising and bowing as before, 
withdrew to fetch up the unfinished tasks of that day, or to get 
up the already looming tasks of to-morrow. In the mean time 
Mr. Feeder withdrew to his own room ; and Paul sat in a cor- 
ner wondering whether Florence was thinking of him, and 
what they were all about at Mrs. Pipchin’s. 

Mr. Toots, who had been detained by an important letter 


THE SCHOOL AT DK. BLIMBEr’s. 131 

from the Duke of Wellington, found Paul out after a time; 
and having looked at him for a long while, as before, inquired 
if he was fond of waistcoats. 

Paul said, “ Yes, Sir.” 

“ So am I,” said Toots. 

No word more spake Toots that night ; but he stood look- 
ing at Paul as if he liked him : and as there was company in 
that, and Paul was not inclined to talk, it answered his pur- 
pose better than conversation. 

At eight o’clock or so, the gong sounded again for prayers 
in the dining-room, where the butler afterwards presided over 
a side-table, on which bread and cheese and beer were sprea*d 
for such young gentlemen as desired to partake of those re- 
freshments. The ceremonies concluded by the Doctor’s saying, 
‘ Gentlemen, we will resume our studies at seven to-morrow ; ” 
and then, for the first time, Paul saw Cornelia Blimber’s eye, 
and saw that it was upon him. When the Doctor had said 
these words, “ Gentlemen, we will resume our studies at seven 
to-morrow, ” the pupils bowed again and went to bed. 

In the confidence of their own room uj3-stairs, Briggs said 
his head ached ready to split, and that he should wish himself 
dead if it wasn’t for his mother, and a blackbird he had at 
home. Tozer didn’t say much, but he sighed a good deal, 
and told Paul to look out, for his turn would come to-morrow. 
After uttering these prophetic words, he undressed himself 
moodily and got into bed. Briggs was in his bed too, and 
Paul in his bed too, before the weak-eyed young man appear- 
ed to take away the candle, when he wished them good-night 
and pleasant dreams. But his benevolent wishes were in vain, 
as far as Briggs and Tozer were concerned ; for Paul, who lay 
awake for a long while, and often woke afterwards, found that 
Briggs was ridden by his lesson as a nightmare, and that To- 
zer, whose mind was affected in his sleep by similar causes, in 
a minor degree, talked unknov/n tongues, or scraps of Greek 


132 THE SCHOOL AT DK. BLIMBER^S. 

and Latin — it was all one to Paul — which, in the silence of 
night, had an inexpressibly wicked and guilty effect. 

Paul had sunk into a sweet sleep, and dreamed that he 
was walking hand in hand with Florence through beautiful 
gardens, when they came to a large sunflower which suddenly 
expanded itself into a gong, and began to sound. Opening 
his eyes, he found that it was a dark, windy morning, with a 
drizzling rain ; and that the real gong was giving dreadful note 
of preparation down in the hall. 

So he got up directly, and found Briggs with hardly any 
eyes, for nightmare and grief had made his face puffy, putting 
his boots on ; while Tozer stood shivering and rubbing his 
shoulders in a very bad humor. Poor Paul couldn’t dress 
himself easily, not being used to it, and asked them if they 
w^orld have the goodness to tie some strings for him ; but as 
Briggs merely said “ Bother ! ” and Tozer, “ Oh, yes ! ” he 
went ^down when he was otherwise ready, to the next story, 
where he saw a pretty young woman in leather gloves, clean- 
ing a stove. The young woman seemed surprised at his ap- 
pearance, and -asked him where his mother was. When Paul 
told her she was dead, she took her gloves off and did what 
he wanted ; and furthermore rubbed his hands to warm them, 
and gave him a kiss ; and told him whenever he wanted any 
thing of that sort — meaning in the dressing way — to ask for 
’Melia ; which Paul, thanking her very much, said he certain- 
ly would. He then proceeded softly on his journey down- 
stairs, towards the room in which the young gentlemen re- 
sumed their studies, when, passing by a door that stood ajar, 
a voice from within cried, “ Is that Dombey } ” On Paul re- 
plying, “Yes, Ma’am,” for he knew the voice to be Miss 
Blimber’s, Miss Blimber said, “ Come in, Dombey.” And in 
he went. 

Miss Blimber presented exactly the appearance she had 
presented yesterday, except that she wore a shawl. Her little 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. ELBIBEr’s. 


133 


light curls were as crisp as ever, and she had already her 
spectacles on, which made Paul wonder whether she went to 
bed in them. She had a cool little sitting-room of her own 
up there, with some books in it and no fire. But Miss Blim.ber 
was never cold and never sleepy. 

“Now, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber, “I am going out for 
a constitutional.” 

Paul wondered what that v/as, and why she didn’t send 
the footman out to get it in such unfavorable weather. But 
he made no observation on the subject, his attention being 
devoted to a little pile of new books on which Miss Blimber 
appeared to have been recently engaged. 

“These are yours, Dombe}^” said Miss Blimber. 

“ All of ’em, Ma’am ? ” said Paul. 

“Yes,” returned Miss Blimber; “and Mr. Feeder will 
look you out some more very soon, if you are as studious as 
I expect you will be, Dombey.” 

“ Thank you. Ma’am,” said Paul. 

“ I am going out for a constitutional,” resumed Miss Blim- 
ber; “and while I am gone, that is to say in the interval be- 
tween this and breakfast, Dombey, I wish you to read over 
what I have marked in these books, and to tell me if you 
quite understand what you have got to learn. Don’t lose 
time, Dombey, for you have none to spare, but take them 
down-stairs, and begin directly.” 

“ Yes, Ma’am,” answered Paul. 

There were so many of them, that although Paul put one 
hand under the bottom book and his other hand and his chin 
on the top book, and hugged them all closely, the middle 
book slipped out before he reached the door, and then they 
all tumbled down on the floor. Miss Blimber said, “Oh, 
Dombey, Dombey, this is really very careless ! ” and piled 
them up afresh for him ; and this time, by dint of balancing 
them with great nicety, Paul got out of the room, and down 


134 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBER’s. 


a few stairs before two of them escaped again. But he held 
the rest so tight, that he only left one more on the first floor 
and one in the passage ; and when he had got the main body 
down into the school-room, he set off up-stairs again to col- 
lect the stragglers. Having at last amassed the whole library, 
and climbed into his place, he fell to vyork, encouraged by a 
remark from Tozer to the effect that he “ was in for it now ; ” 
which was the only interruption he received till breakfast 
time. At that meal, for which he had no appetite, every thing 
was quite as solemn and genteel as at the others ; and when 
it was finished, he followed Miss Blimber iip-stairs. 

“ Now, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber. “ How have you 
got on with those books ? ” 

They comprised a little English and a deal of Latin — 
names of things, declensions of articles and substantives, 
exercises thereon, and preliminary rules — a trifle of orthog- 
raphy, a glance at ancient history, a wink or two at modern 
ditto, a few tables, two or three weights and measures, and a 
little general information. When poor Paul had spelt out 
number two, he found he had no idea of number one ; frag- 
ments whereof afterwards obtruded themselves into number 
three, which slided into number four, which grafted itself on 
to number two. So that whether twenty Romuluses made a 
Remus, or hie htec hoc was troy weight, or a verb always 
agreed with an ancient Briton, or three times four was Taurus 
a bull, were open questions with him. 

“ Oh, Dombey, Dombey ! ” said Miss Blimber, “ this is 
very shocking.” 

“ If you plea.se,” said Paul, “ I think if I might sometimes 
talk a little to old Glubb, I should be able to do better.” 

“ Nonsense, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber. “ I couldn’t 
hear of it. This is not the place for Glubbs of any kind. 
You must take the books down, I suppose, Dombey, one by 
one, and perfect yourself in the day’s installment of subject 


135 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLIjMBEr’s. 

A, before you turn at all to subject B. And now take away 
the top book, if you please, Dombey, and return when you 
are master of the theme.” 

Miss Blimber expressed her opinions on the subject of 
i^aul’s uninstructed state with a gloomy delight, as if she had 
expected this result, and were glad to find that they must be 
in constant communication. Paul withdrew with the top 
task, as he was told, and labored away at it, down below ; 
sometimes remembering every word of it, and sometimes for- 
getting it all and eveiy thing else besides ; until at last he 
ventured up-stairs again to repeat the lesson, w^hen it was 
nearly all driven out of his head before he began, by Miss 
Blimber’s shutting up the book, and saying, “ Go on, Dom- 
bey ! ” a proceeding so suggestive of the knowledge inside of 
her, that Paul looked upon the young lady with consternation, 
as a kind of learned Guy Faux, or artificial Bogle, stuffed full 
of scholastic straw. 

He acquitted himself very well, nevertheless ; and Miss 
Blimber, commending him as giving promise of getting on fast, 
immediately provided him with subject B ; from which he 
passed to C, and even D before dinner. It was hard work, 
resuming his studies, soon after dinner; and he felt giddy 
and confused and drowsy and dull. But all the other young 
gentlemen had similar sensations, and were obliged to resume 
their studies too, if there were any comfort in that. It was a 
wonder that the great clock in the hall, instead of being con- 
stant to its first inquiry, never said, “Gentlemen, we will now 
resume our studies,” for that phrase was often enough repeated 
in its neighborhood. The studies went round like a mighty 
wheel, and the young gentlemen were always stretched upon it. 

After tea there were exercises again, and preparations for 
next day by candle-light. And in due course there was bed ; 
where, but for that resumption of the studies which took place 
in dreams, were rest and sweet forgetfulness. 


136 THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLBIBER’S. 

Oh, Saturdays ! Oh, happy Saturdays, when Florence al- 
v;ays came at noon, and never would, in any weather, stay 
away, though Mrs. Pipchin snarled and growled and worried 
her bitterly. Those Saturdays were Sabbaths for at least two 
little Christians among all the Jews, and did the holy Sabbath 
work of strengthening and knitting up a brother’s and a sister’s 
love. 

Not even the Sunday nights — the heavy Sunday nights, 
whose shadow darkened the first waking burst of light on Sun- 
day mornings — could mar those precious Saturdays. Wheth- 
er it was the great sea-shore where they sat, and strolled to- 
gether ; or whether it was only Mrs. Pipchin’s dull back room, 
in which she sang to him so softly, with his drowsy head upon 
her arm, Paul never cared. It was Florence. That was all 
he thought of. So, on Sunday nights, when the Doctor’s dark 
door stood agape to swallow him up for another week, the time 
was come for taking leave of Florence ; no one else. 

Mrs. Wickam had been drafted home to the house in town, 
and Miss Nipper, now a smart young woman, had come down. 
To many a single combat with Mrs. Pipchin did Miss Nipper 
gallantly devote herself ; and if ever Mrs. Pipchin in all her 
life had found her match, she had found it now. Miss Nipper 
threw away the scabbard the first morning she arose in Mrs. 
Pipchin’s house. She asked and gave no quarter. She said 
it must be war, and war it was ; and Mrs. Pipchin lived from 
that time in the midst of surprises, harassings, and defiances, 
and skirmishing attacks that came bouncing in upon her from 
the passage, even in unguarded moments of chops, and car- 
ried desolation to her very toast. 

Miss Nipper had returned one Sunday night with Flor- 
ence, from walking back with Paul to the Doctor’s, when Flor- 
ence took from her bosom a little piece of paper, on which she 
had pencilled down some words. 

“ See here, Susan,” she said. “ These are the names of 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLIMBEr’s. 


137 


the little books that Paul brings home to do those long exer- 
cises with, when he is so tired. I copied them last night 
while he was writing.” 

“ Don’t shew ’em to me, Miss Floy, if you please,” return- 
ed Nipper, “ I’d as soon see Mrs. Pipchin.” 

“ I want you to buy them for me, Susan, if you will, to- 
morrow morning. I have money enough,” said Florence. 

Why, goodness gracious me. Miss Ploy,” returned Miss 
Nipper, “ how can you talk like that, when you have books 
upon books already, and masterses and missesses a teaching 
of you every thing continual, though ray belief is that your Pa, 
Miss Dombey, never would have learnt you nothing, never 
would have thought of it, unless you’d asked him — when he 
couldn’t well refuse ; but giving consent when asked, and offer- 
ing when unasked. Miss, is quite two things ; I may not have 
my objections to a young man’s keeping company with me, 
and when he puts the question, may say ‘ yes,’ but that’s not 
saying ‘ would you be so kind as like me.’ ” 

“ But you can buy me the books, Susan ; and you will, 
when you know I want them.” 

Well, Miss, and why do you want ’em ? ” replied Nipper ; 
adding, in a lower voice, “ if it was to fling at Mrs. Pipchin’s 
head. I’d buy a cart-load.” 

“ I think I could perhaps give Paul some help, Susan, if I 
had these books,” said Florence, “ and make the coming week 
a little easier to him. At least I want to try. So buy them 
for me, dear, and I will never forget how kind it was of you to 
do it!” 

It must have been a harder heart than Susan Nipper’s that 
could have rejected the little purse Florence held out with 
these words, or the gentle look of entreaty with which she sec- 
onded her petition. Susan put the purse in her pocket without 
reply, and trotted out at once upon her errand. 

The books were not easy to procure j and the answer at 


138 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLHVIBEr’s. 


several shops was, either that they were just out of them, or 
that they never kept them, or that they had had a great many 
last month, or that they expected a great many next v^eek. 
But Susan was not easily baffled in such an enterprise ; and 
having entrapped a white-haired youth, in a black calico apron, 
from a library where she was known, to accompany her in her 
quest, she led him such a life in going up and down, that he 
exerted himself to the utmost, if it were only to get rid of her ; 
and finally enabled her to return home in triumph. 

With these treasures then, after her own daily lessons were 
over, Florence sat down at night to track Paul’s footsteps 
through the thorny ways of learning; and being possessed of a 
naturally quick and sound capacity, and taught by that most 
wonderful of masters, love, it was not long before she gained 
upon Paul’s heels, and caught and passed him.. 

Not a word of this was breathed to Mrs. Pipchin ; but 
many a night when they were all in bed, and when Miss Nip- 
per, with her hair in papers and herself in some uncomfortable 
attitude, reposed unconscious by her side ; and when the 
chinking ashes in the grate were cold and gray ; and when the 
candles v;ere burnt down and guttering out, Florence tried 
so hard to be a substitute for one small Dombey, that her for- 
titude and perseverance might have almost won her a free right 
to bear the name herself. 

And high was her reward, when one Saturday evening, as 
little Paul was sitting down as usual to resume his studies,’* 
she sat down by his side and shov/ed him all that was so 
rough, made smooth, and all that was so dark, made clear and 
plain before him. It was nothing but a startled look in Paul’s 
wan face — a flush — a smile — and then a close embrace — but 
God knows how her heart leaped up at this rich payment for 
her trouble. 

Oh, Floy ! ” cried her brother, “ how I love you I how 
I love you, Floy ! ” 


139 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLTMBEr’s. 

** And I you, dear ! ” 

“ Oh ! I am sure, sure o( that, Floy.” 

said no more about it, but all that evening sat close by 
her, very quiet ; and in the night he called out from his little 
room within hers, three or four times, that he loved her. 

Regularly, after that, Florence was prepared to sit down 
with Paul on Saturday night, and patiently assist him through 
so much as they could anticipate together, of his next week’s 
work. The cheering thought that he was laboring on where 
Florence had just toiled before him, would, of jtself, have been 
a stimulant to Paul in the perpetual resumption of his studies ; 
but coupled with the actual lightening of his load, consequent 
on this assistance, it saved him, possibly, from sinking under- 
neath the burden which the fair Cornelia Blimber piled upon 
his back. 

It was not that Miss Blimber meant to be too hard upon 
him, or that Dr. Blimber meant to bear too heavily on the 
young gentlemen in general. Cornelia merely held the faith 
in which she had been bred ; and the Doctor, in some partial 
confusion of his ideas, regarded the young gentlemen as if they 
were all Doctors, and were born grown up. Comforted by the 
applause of the young gentlemen’s nearest relations, and urged 
on by their blind vanity and ill-considered haste, it would have 
been strange if Doctor Blimber had discovered his mistake, or 
trimmed his swelling sails to any other tack. 

Thus in the case of Paul. When Doctor Blimber said he 
made great progress, and was naturally clever, Mr. Dombey 
was more bent than ever on his being forced and crammed. 
In the case of Briggs, when Dr. Blimber reported that he did 
not make great progress yet, and was not naturally clever, 
Briggs senior was inexorable in the same purpose. In short, 
however high and false the temperature at which the Doctor kept 
his hothouse, the owners of the plants were always ready to 
lend a helping hand at the bellows and to stir the fire. 


140 


THE SCHOOL AT DK. BLBIBEE'S. 


Such spirits as he had in the outset, Paul soon lost of 
course. But he retained all that was strange, and old, and 
thoughtful in his character ; and under circumstances so favor- 
able to the development of those tendencies, became even 
more strange, and old, and thoughtful, than before. 

The only difference was, that he kept his character to him- 
self. He grew more thoughtful and reserved every day ; and 
had no such curiosity in any living member of the Doctor’s 
household, as he had had in Mrs. Pipchin. He loved to be 
alone ; and in those short intervals when he was not occupied 
with his books, liked nothing so well as wandering about the 
house by himself, or sitting on the stairs, listening to the great 
clock in the hall. He was intimate with all the paper-hanging 
in the house ; saw things that no one else saw in the patterns ; 
found out miniature tigers and lions running up the bedroom 
walls, and squinting faces leering in the squares and diamonds 
of the floor-cloth. 

The solitary child lived on, surrounded by this arabesque 
work of his musing fancy, and no one understood him. Mrs. 
Blimber thought him “odd,” and sometimes the servants said 
among themselves that little Dombey “ moped but that was 
all, unless young Toots had some idea on the subject, to the 
expression of which he was wholly unequal. Ideas, like 
ghosts, according to the common notion of ghosts, must be 
spoken to a little before they will explain themselves ; and 
Toots had long left off asking any questions of his own mind. 
Some mist there may have been, issuing from that leaden cas- 
ket, his cranium, which, if it could have taken shape and 
form, would have become a genie; but it could not ; and it 
only so far followed the example of the smoke in the Arabian 
story, as to roll out in a thick cloud, and there hang and 
hover. But it left a little figure visible upon a lonely shore, 
and Toots was always staring at it. 

“ How are you ? ” he would say to Paul fifty times a day. 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBER^S. 


141 


Quite well, Sir, thank you,’ Paul would answer. 

Shake hands,” would be Toots’s next advance. 

Which Paul, of course, would immediately do. Mr. Toots 
generally said again, after a long interval of staring and hard 
breathing, “ How are you?” To which Paul again' replied, 
“ Quite well. Sir, thank you.” • 

One evening Mr. Toots was sitting at his desk, oppressed 
by correspondence, when a great purpose seemed to flash upon 
him. He laid down his pen and went off to seek Paul, whom 
he found at last, after a long search, looking through the win- 
dow of his little bedroom. 

“ I say ! ” cried Toots, speaking the moment he entered 
the room lest he should forget it ; “ what do you think about ? ” 

“ Oh ! I think about a great many things,” replied Paul. 

“ Do you, though ! ” said Toots, appearing to consider that 
fact in itself surprising. 

“ If you had to die,” said Paul, looking up into his face — 

Mr. Toots started, and seemed much disturbed. 

“ Don’t you think you w'ould rather die on a moonlight 
night when the sky was quite clear, and the wind blowing, as 
it did last night ? ” 

Mr. Toots said, looking doubtfully at Paul, and shaking 
his head, that he didn’t know about that. 

“Not blowing, at least,” said Paul, “but sounding in the 
air like the sea sounds in the shells. It was a beautiful night. 
When I had listened to the water for a long time, I got up and 
looked out. There was a boat over there, in the full light of 
the moon ; a boat with a sail.” 

The child looked at him so steadfastly, and spoke so ear- 
nestly, that Mr. Toots, feeling himself called upon to say some- 
thing about this boat, said, “ Smugglers.” But with an impar- 
tial remembrance of there being two sides to every question, 
he added, “ or Preventive.” 

“ A boat with a sail,” repeated Paul, “ in the full light of 


142 


THE SCHOOL AT DE; BLIMBEE^S. 

the moon. The sail like an arm, all silver. It went away into 
the distance, and what do you think it seemed to do as it 
moved with the waves ? ” 

“ Pitch,” said Mr. Toots. 

“It seemed to beckon,” said the child, “to beckon me to 
come ! — There she is ! There she is ! ” 

Toots was almost beside himself with dismay at this sudden 
exclamation, after what had gone before, and cried “ Who } ” 

• “ My sister Florence I ” cried Paul, “ looking up here, and 
waving her hand. She sees me-— she sees me ! Good-night, 
dear, good-night, good-night.” 

His quick transition to a state of unbounded pleasure, as 
he stood at his window, kissing and clapping his hands, and 
the way in which the light retreated from his features as she 
passed out of his view, and left a patient melancholy on the 
little face, were too remarkable wholly to escape even Toots’s 
notice. Their interview being interrupted at this moment by 
a visit from Mrs. Pipchin, w’ho usually brought her black skirts 
to bear upon Paul just before dusk once or twice a week. 
Toots had no opportunity of improving the occasion ; but it 
left so marked an impression on his mind that he twice return- 
ed, after having exchanged the usual salutations, to ask Mrs. 
Pipchin how she did. This the irascible old lady conceived 
to be a deeply-devised and long-meditated insult, originating 
in the diabolical invention of the weak-eyed young man down- 
stairs, against whom she accordingly lodged a formal complaint 
with Doctor Blimber that very night ; who mentioned to the 
young man that if he ever did it again, he should be obliged to 
part with him. 

The evenings being longer now, Paul stole up to his window 
every evening to look out for Florence. She always passed 
and repassed at a certain time, until she saw him ; and their 
mutual recognition was a gleam of sunshine in Paul’s daily life. 
Often after dark one other figure walked alone before the Doc- 


THE SCHOOL AT DK. BLIilBER’S. 


143 


tor’s house. He rarely joined them on the Saturday now. He 
could not bear it. He would rather come unrecognized, and 
look up at the windows v/here his son was qualifying for a man ; 
and wait, and watch, and plan, and hope. 

Oh ! could he but have seen, or seen as others did, the 
slight spare boy above watching the waves and clouds at twi- 
light with his earnest eyes, and breasting the window of his 
solitary cage when birds flew by, as if he would have emulated 
them, and soared away ! 


144 


THE SCHOOL A.T DB. BLIMBEk’s. 


CHAPTER II. 


HEN the midsummer vacation approached, no indecent 



V V manifestations of joy were exhibited by the leaden- 
eyed young gentlemen assembled at Doctor Blimber’s. Any 
such violent expression as “breaking up would have . been 
quite inapplicable to that polite establishment. The young 
gentlemen oozed away, semi-annually, to their own homes ; but 
they never broke up. They would have scorned the action. 

Tozcr, who was constantly galled and tormented by a 
starched white cambric neckerchief, which he wore at the ex- 
press desire of Mrs. Tozer, his parent, who, designing him for 
the Church, was of the opinion that he couldn’t be in that for- 
ward state of preparation too soon — Tozer said, indeed, that 
choosing between two evils, he thought he would rather stay 
where he was than go home. However inconsistent this 
declaration might appear with that passage in Tozer’s Essay 
on the subject, wherein he observed “ that the thoughts of home 
and all its recollections awakened in his mind the most pleas- 
ing emotions of anticipation and delight,” and had also likened 
himself to a Roman General, flushed with a recent victory over 
the Iceni, or laden with Carthaginian spoil, advancing within 
a few hours’ march of the Capitol, pre-supposed, for the pur- 
poses of the simile, to be the dwelling-place of Mrs. Tozer, 
still it was very sincerely made. For it seemed that Tozer 
had a dreadful uncle, who not only volunteered examinations 
of him, in the holidays, on abstruse points, but twisted innocent 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BI BIBEr’s. 


145 


events and things, and wrenched them to the same fell purpose. 
So that if this uncle took him to the play, or, on a similar pre- 
tence of kindness, carried him to see a giant or a dwarf, or a 
conjurer, or any thing, Tozer knew he had read up some clas- 
sical allusion to the subject beforehand, and was thrown into a 
state of mortal apprehension, not foreseeing where he might 
break out, or what authority he might not quote against him. 

As to Briggs, his father made no show of artifice about it. 
He never would leave him alone. So numerous and severe 
were the mental trials of that unfortunate youth in vacation 
time, that the friends of the family (then resident near Bays- 
water, London) seldom approached the ornamental piece of 
water in Kensington Gardens without a vague expectation of 
seeing Master Briggs’s hat floating on the surface and an un- 
finished exercise lying on the bank. Briggs, therefore, was 
not at all sanguine on the subject of holidays ; and these two 
sharers of little Paul’s bedroom were so fair a sample of the 
young men in general, that the most elastic among them con- 
templated the arrival of those festive periods with genteel 
resignation; 

It was far otherwise with little Paul. The end of these 
first holidays was to witness his separation from Florence ; but 
who ever looked forward to the end of holidays whose begin- 
ning was not yet come ! Not Paul, assuredly. As the happy time 
drew near, the lions and tigers climbing up the bedroom walls 
became quite tame and frolicsome. The grim sly faces in the 
squares and diamonds of the floor-cloth relaxed and peeped 
out at him with less wicked eyes. The grave old clock had 
more of personal interest in the tone of its formal inquiry ; and 
the restless sea went rolling on all night, to the sounding of a 
melancholy strain — yet it was pleasant too — that rose and fell 
with the waves, and rocked him, as it were, to sleep. 

Mr. Feeder, B. A., seemed to think that he, too, would en- 
joy the holidays very much. Mr. Toots projected a life of 
7 


146 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLIMBER^S. 


holidays from that time forth ; for, as he regularly informed 
Paul every day, it was ^‘his last half” at Doctor Blimber’s, and 
he was going to begin to come into his property directly. 

It was perfectly understood between Paul and Mr. Toots 
that they were intimate friends, notwithstanding their distance 
in point of years and station. As the vacation approached, 
and Mr. Toots breathed harder and stared oftener in Paul’s so- 
ciety than he had done before, Paul knew that he meant he 
was sorry they were going to lose sight of each other, and felt 
very much obliged to him for his patronage and good opinion. 

It was even understood by Doctor Blimber, Mrs. Blimber, 
and Miss Blimber, as well as by the young gentlemen in gen- 
eral, that Toots had somehow constituted himself protector and 
guardian of Dombey, and the circumstance became so notori- 
ous, even to Mrs. Pipchin, that the good old creature cherish- 
ed feelings of bitterness and jealousy against Toots, and, in 
the sanctuary of her own home, repeatedly denounced him as 
a “ chuckle-headed noodle.” Whereas the innocent Toots had 
no more idea of awakening Mrs. Pipchin’s wrath than he had 
of any other definite possibility or proposition. On the con- 
trary, he was disposed to consider her rather a remarkable 
character, with many points of interest about her. For this 
reason he smiled on her with so much urbanity, and asked her 
how she did, so often, in the course of her visits to little Paul, 
that at last she one night told him plainly she wasn’t used to 
it, whatever he might think ; and she could not and she would 
not bear it either from himself or any other puppy then exist- 
ing ; at which unexpected acknowledgment of his civilities 
Mr. Toots was so alarmed that he secreted himself in a retired 
spot until she had gone. Nor did he ever again face the 
doughty Mrs. Pipchin under Doctor Blimber’s roof. 

They were within two or three weeks of the holidays when, 
one day, Cornelia Blimber called Paul into her room, and said, 
“ Dombey, I am going to send home your analysis.” 


147 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLIMBEK’s. 

‘‘ Thank you, Ma’am,” returned Paul. 

“ You know what I mean, do you, Dombey ? ” inquired Miss 
Blimber, looking bard at him through the spectacles. 

“ No, Ma’am,” said Paul. 

“ Dombey, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber, “ I begin to be 
afraid you are a sad boy. When you don’t know the meaning 
of an expression why don't you seek for information ? ” 

“ Mrs. Pipchin told me I wasn’t to ask questions,” return- 
ed Paul. 

“ I must beg you not to mention Mrs. Pipchin to me on 
any account, Dombey,” returned Miss Blimber. “ I couldn’t 
think of allowing it. The course of study here is very far re- 
moved from any thing of that sort. A repetition of such allu- 
sions would make it necessary for me to request to hear, with- 
out a mistake, before breakfast- time to-morrow morning, from 
Verbu7n personale down to simillima cygnoP 

“ I didn’t mean. Ma’am — ” began little Paul. 

“ I must trouble you not to tell me that you didn’t mean, 
if you please, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber, who preserved an 
awful politeness in her admonitions. “ That is a line of argu- 
ment I couldn’t dream of permitting.” 

Paul felt it safest to say nothing at all, so he only looked 
at Miss Blimber’s spectacles. Miss Blimber having shaken 
her head at him gravely, referred to a paper lying before her. 

“ ‘ Analysis of the character of P. Dombey.’ If my recol- 
lection serves me,” said Miss Blimber breaking off, “the word 
analysis, as- opposed to synthesis, is thus defined by Walker. 
‘ The resolution of an object, whether of the senses or of the 
intellect, into its first elements.’ As opposed to synthesis, you 
observe. Now you know what analysis is, Dombey.” 

Dombey didn’t seem to be absolutely blinded by the light 
let in upon his intellect, but he made Miss Blimber a little bow. 

“ ‘ Analysis,’ ” resumed Miss Blimber, casting her eye over 
the paper, “ ‘ of the character of P. Dombey.’ I find that the 


14:8 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLIMBEe’s. 


natural capacity of Dombey is extremely good ; and that his 
general disposition to study may be stated in an equal ratio. 
Thus, taking eight as our standard and highest number, I find 
these qualities in Dombey stated each at six three-fourths ! ” 

Miss Blimber paused to see how Paul received this news. 
Being undecided whether six three-fourths meant six pounds 
fifteen, or sixpence three farthings, or six foot three, or three 
quarters past six, or six somethings that he hadn’t learnt yet, 
with three unknown something elses over, Paul rubbed his 
hands and looked straight at Miss Blimber. It happened to 
answer as well as any thing else he could have done j and 
Cornelia proceeded. 

“ ‘ Violence two. Selfishness two. Inclination to low com- 
pany, as evinced in the case of a person named Glubb, origi- 
nally seven, but since reduced. Gentlemanly demeanor four, 
and improving with advancing years.’ Now what I particu- 
larly wish to call your attention to, Dombey, is the general 
observation at the close of this analysis.” 

Paul set himself to follow it with great care. 

“ ‘ It may be generally observed of Dombey,’ ” said Miss 
Blimber, reading in a loud voice and at every second word di- 
recting her spectacles towards the little figure before her, 
“ ‘ that his abilities and inclinations are good, and that he 
has made as much progress as under the circumstances could 
have been expected. But it is to be lamented of this young 
gentleman that he is singular (what is usually termed old-fash- 
ioned) in his character and conduct, and that, without present- 
ing any thing in either which distinctly calls for reprobation, 
he is often very unlike other young gentlemen of his age and 
social position.’ Now, Dombey,” said Miss Blimber, laying 
down the paper, “ do you understand that ? ’ 

“ I think I do. Ma’am,” said Paul. 

“ This analysis, you see, Dombey,” Miss Blimber contin- 
ued, “ is going to be sent home to your respected parent. It 


THE SCHOOL AT HE. BLIMBEe’s. 


149 


will naturally be very painful to him to find that you are singular 
in your character and conduct. It is naturally painful to us ; for 
we can’t like you, you know, Dombey, as well as we could wish.” 

She touched the child upon a tender point. He had se- 
cretly become more and more solicitous from day to day, as 
the time of his departure drew more near, that all the house 
should like him. For some hidden reason, very imperfectly 
understood by himself, — if understood at all, — he felt a grad- 
ually increasing impulse of affection towards almost every thing 
and everybody in the place. He could not bear to think that 
they would be quite indifferent to him when he was gone. He 
wanted them to remember him kindly ; and he had made it 
his business even to conciliate a great, hoarse, shaggy dog 
chained up at the back of the house, who had previously been 
the terror of his life, that even he might miss him when he 
was no longer there. 

Little thinking that in this he only showed again the 
difference between himself and his compeers, poor tiny Paul 
set it forth to Miss Blimber as well as he could, and begged 
her, in despite of the official analysis, to have the goodness to 
try and like him. To Mrs. Blimber, who had joined them, he 
preferred the same petition ; and when that lady could not 
forbear, even in his presence, from giving utterance to her 
often-repeated opinion, that he was an odd child, Paul told her 
that he was sure she was quite right ; that he thought it must 
be his bones, but he didn’t know ; and that he hoped she 
would overlook it, for he was fond of them all. 

“ Not so fond,” said Paul, with a mixture of timidity and 
perfect frankness, which was one of the most peculiar and 
most engaging qualities of the child, “ not so fond as I am of 
Florence, of course ; that could never be. You couldn’t ex- 
pect that, could you. Ma’am ? ” 

“ Oh ! the old-fashioned little soul ! ” cried Mrs. Blimber, 
in a whisper. 


150 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLniBEE’s. 


“But I like everybody here very much,” pursued Paul, 
“ and I should grieve to go away and think that any one was 
glad that I was gone, or didn’t care.” 

Mrs. Blimber was now quite sure that Paul was the oddest 
child in the world ; and when she told the Doctor what had 
passed, the Doctor did not controvert his wife’s opinion. But 
he said, as he had said before, when Paul first came, that 
study would do much ; and he also said, as he had said on 
that occasion, “ Bring him on, Cornelia ! Bring him. on ! ” 

Cornelia had always brought him on as vigorously as she 
could, and Paul had had a hard life of it. But over and 
above the getting through his tasks, he had long had another 
purpose always present to him, and to which he still held fast. 
It was, to be a gentle, useful, quiet little fellow, always striv- 
ing to secure the love and attachment of the rest ; and though 
he was yet often to be seen at his old post on the stairs, or 
watching the waves and clouds from his solitary window, he 
was oftener found, too, among the other boys, modestly ren- 
dering them some little voluntary service. Thus it came to 
pass, that even among those rigid and absorbed young anchor- 
ites who mortified themselves beneath the roof of Doctor 
Blimber, Paul was an object of general interest, a fragile lit- 
tle plaything that they all liked, and that no one would have 
thought of treating roughly. But he could not change his 
nature, or re-write the analysis ; and so they all agreed that 
Dombey was old-fashioned. 

There were some immunities, however, attaching to the 
character enjoyed by no one else. They could have better 
spared a newer-fashioned child, and that alone was much. 
When the others only bowed to Doctor Blimber and family on 
retiring for the night, Paul would stretch out his morsel of a 
hand, and boldly shake the Doctor’s ; also Mrs. Blimber’s ; 
also Cornelia’s. If anybody was to be begged off from im- 
pending punishment, Paul was always the delegate. The 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLIMBEr’s. 


151 


weak eyed young man himself had once consulted him, in ref- 
erence to a little breakage of glass awi china. And it was 
darkly rumored that the butler, regarding him with favor such 
as that stern man had never shown before to mortal boy, had 
sometimes mingled porter with his table-beer to make him 
strong. 

Oyer and above these extensive privileges, Paul had free 
right of entry to Mr. Feeder’s room, from which apartment he 
had twice led Mr. Toots into the open air in a state of faint- 
ness, consequent on an unsuccessful attempt to smoke a very 
blunt cigar, one of a bundle which that young gentleman had 
covertly purchased on the shingle from a most desperate smug- 
gler, who had acknowledged, in confidence, that two hundred 
pounds was the price set upon his head, dead or alive, by the 
Custom House. It was a snug room, Mr. Feeder’s, with his 
bed in another little room inside of it, and a flute, which Mr. 
Feeder couldn’t play yet, but was going to make a point of 
learning, he said, hanging up over the fire-place. There were 
some books in it, too, and a fishing-rod ; for Mr. Feeder said 
he should certainly make a point of learning to fish, when he 
could find time. Mr. Feeder had amassed, with similar inten- 
tions, a beautiful little curly second-hand key bugle, a chess- 
board and men, a Spanish Grammar, a set of sketching-ma- 
terials, and a pair of boxing-gloves. The art of self-defence 
Mr. Feeder said he should undoubtedly make a point of learn 
ing, as he considered it the duty of every man to do ; for it 
might lead to the protection of a female in distress. 

But Mr. Feeder’s great possession was a large green jar 
of snuff, which Mr. Toots had brought down as a present at 
the close of the last vacation ; and for which he had paid a 
high price, as having been the genuine property of the Prince 
Regent. Neither Mr. Toots nor Mr. Feeder could partake 
of this or any other snuff, even in the most stinted and mod- 
erate degree, without being seized with convulsions of sneez- 


152 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLIMBEe’s. 


ing. Nevertheless it was their great delight to moisten a box- 
ful with cold tea, stir it up on a piece of parchment with a 
paper-knife, and devote themselves to its consumption then 
and there. In the course of which cramming of their noses 
they endured surprising torments with the constancy of mar- 
tyrs ; and drinking table-beer at intervals, felt all the glories 
of dissipation. 

To little Paul sitting silent in their company, and by the 
side of his chief patron, Mr. Toots, there was a dread charm 
in these reckless occasions ; and when Mr. Feeder spoke of 
the dark mysteries of London, and told Mr. Toots that he 
was going to observe it himself closely in all its ramifications 
in the approaching holidays, and for that purpose had made 
arrangements to board with two old maiden ladies at Peck- 
ham, Paul regarded him as if he were the hero of some book 
of travels or wild adventure, and was almost afraid of such a 
slashing person. 

Going into this room one evening, when the holidays were 
very near, Paul found Mr. Feeder filling up the blanks in 
some printed letters, while some others, already filled up and 
strewn before him, were being folded and sealed by Mr. Toots. 
Mr. Feeder said, “ Aha, Dombey, there you are, are you ? ” — 
for they were always kind to him, and glad to see him — and 
then said, tossing one of the letters towards him, “ And there 
you are, too, Dombey. That’s yours.” 

“ Mine, Sir ? ” said Paul. 

“ Your invitation,” returned Mr. Feeder. 

Paul, looking at it, found, in copper-plate print, with the 
exception of his own name and the date, which were in Mr. 
Feeder’s penmanship, that Dr. and Mrs. Blimber requested 
the pleasure of Mr. P. Dombey’s company at an early party 
on Wednesday evening the seventeenth instant ; and that 
the hour was half-past seven o’clock ; and that the object was 
quadrilles. Mr. Toots also showed him, by holding up a 


THE SCHOOL AT HE. BL^HBEr’s. 


153 


companion sheet of paper, that Dr. and Mrs. Blimber re- 
quested the pleasure of Mr. Toots’s company at an early 
party on Wednesday evening the seventeenth instant, when 
the hour was half-past seven o’clock, and when the object was 
quadrilles. He also found, on glancing at the table where 
Mr. Feeder sat, that the pleasure of Mr. Briggs’s compai 
and of Mr. Tozer’s company, and of every young gentleman’, 
company, was requested by Doctor and Mrs. Blimber on the 
same genteel occasion. 

Mr. Feeder then told him, to his great joy, that his sister 
was invited, and that it was a half-yearjy event, and that, as 
the holidays began that day, he could go away with his sister 
after the party, if he liked, which Paul interrupted him to say 
he would like, very much. Mr. Feeder then gaye him to un- 
derstand that he would be expected to inform Doctor and 
Mrs. Blimber, in superfine small-hand, that Mr. P. Dombey 
would be happy to have the honor of waiting on them, in 
accordance with their polite invitation. Lastly, Mr. Feeder 
said he had better not refer to the festive occasion in the 
hearing of Doctor and Mrs. Blimber, as these prelimina- 
ries, and the whole of the arrangements, w’ere conducted 
on principles of classicality and high breeding; and that 
Doctor and Mrs. Blimber on the one hand, and the young 
gentlemen on the other, were supposed, in their scholastic ca- 
pacities, not to have the least idea of what was in the wind. 

Paul thanked Mr. Feeder for these hints, and pocketing 
his invitation, sat down on a stool by the side of Mr. Toots 
as usual. But Paul’s head, which had long been ailing more 
or less, and was sometimes very heavy and painful, felt so 
uneasy that night that he was obliged to support it on his 
hand. And yet it dropped so, that by little and little it sunk 
on Mr. Toots’s knee, and rested there, as if it had no care to 
be ever lifted up again. 

That was no reason why he should be deaf ; but he must 


154 


THE SCHOOL AT HE. BLHVrBEK’s. 


have been, he thought, for by and by he heard Mr. Feeder 
calling in his ear, and gently shaking him to rouse his atten- 
tion. And when he raised his head, quite scared, and looked 
about him, he found that Doctor Blimber had come into the 
room j and that the window was open, and that his forehead 
was wet with sprinkled water j though how all this had been 
done without his knowledge, was very curious indeed. 

“ Ah ! Come, come ! That’s well ! How is my little 
friend now ? ” said Doctor Blimber, encouragingly. 

“ Oh, quite well, thank you. Sir,” said Paul. 

But there seemed to be something the matter with the floor, 
for he couldn’t stand upon it steadily ; and with the walls too, 
for they were inclined to turn round and round, and could only 
be stopped by being looked at very hard indeed. Mr. Toots’s 
head had the appearance of being at once bigger and farther 
off than was quite natural ; and when he took Paul in his 
arms to carry him up-stairs, Paul observed with astonishment 
that the door was in quite a different place from that in which 
he had ex^^ected to find it, and almost thought, at first, that 
Mr. Toots was going to walk straight up the chimney. 

It was very kind of Mr. Toots to carry him to the top of 
the house so tenderly, and Paul told him that it was. But Mr. 
Toots said he would do a great deal more than that if he 
could ; and indeed he did more as it was ; for he helped Paul 
to undress, and helped him to bed in the kindest manner pos- 
sible, and then sat down by the bedside and chuckled very 
much ; while Mr. Feeder, B. A., leaning over the bottom of 
the bedstead, set all the little bristles in his head bolt upright 
with his bony hands, and then made believe to spar at Paul 
with great science, on account of his being all right again, 
which was so uncommonly facetious, and kind too, in Mr. 
Feeder, that Paul, not being able to make up his mind wheth- 
er it was best to laugh or cry. at him, did both at once. 

How Mr. Toots melted away, and Mr. Feeder changed 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBEe’s. 155 

into Mrs. Pipchin, Paul never thought of asking ; neither was 
he at all curious to know ; but when he saw Mrs. Pipchin 
standing at the bottom of the bed instead of Mr. Feeder, he 
cried out, “ Mrs. Pipchin, don’t tell Florence ! ” 

“ Don’t tell Florence what, my little Paul ? ” said Mrs. Pip- 
chin, coming round to the bedside and sitting down in the chair. 

“ About me,” said Paul. 

“ No, no,” said Mrs. Pipchin. 

“ What do you think I mean to do when I grow up, Mrs. 
Pipchin?” inquired Paul, turning his face towards her on his 
pillow, and resting his chin wistfully on his folded hands. 

Mrs. Pipchin couldn’t guess. 

“ I mean,” said Paul, “ to put my money all together in 
one bank, never try to get any more, go away into the country 
with my darling Florence, have a beautiful garden, fields, and 
woods, and live there with her all my life ! ” 

** Indeed ! ” cried Mrs. Pipchin. 

‘‘Yes,” said Paul. “ That’s what I mean to do when I — ” 
He stopped, and pondered for a moment. 

Mrs. Pipchin’s gray eyes scanned his thoughtful face. 

“ If I grow up,” said Paul. Then he went on immediately 
to tell Mrs. Pipchin all about the party, about Florence’s invi- 
tation, about the pride he would have in the admiration that 
would be felt for her by all the boys, about their being so kind 
to him and fond of him, about his being so fond of them, and 
about his being so glad of it. Then he told Mrs. Pipchin 
about the analysis, and about his being certainly old-fashioned, 
and took Mrs. Pipchin’s opinion on that point, and whether 
she knew why it was and what it meant. Mrs. Pipchin denied 
the fact altogether, as the shortest way of getting out of the 
difficulty ; but Paul was far from satisfied with that reply, and 
looked so searchingly at Mrs. Pipchin for a truer answer, that 
she was obliged to get up and look out of the window to avoid 
his eyes. 


156 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLIMBEE’s. 


There was a certain calm apothecary who attended at 
the establishment when any of the young gentlemen were ill, 
and somehow he got into the room and appeared at the bedr 
side with Mrs. Blimber. How they came there, or how long 
they had been there, Paul didn’t know ; but when he saw 
them, he sat up in bed and answ^ered all the apothecary’s 
questions at full length, and whispered to him that Florence 
was not to know any thing about it, if he pleased, and that he 
had set his mind upon her coming to the party. He was very 
chatty with the apothecary, and they parted excellent friends. 
Lying down again with his eyes shut, he heard the apothe- 
car}^ say, out of the room, and quite a long way off — or he 
dreamed it — that there was a want of vital power (what was 
that Paul wondered !) and great constitutional weakness. 
And that as the little fellow had set his heart on parting with 
his schoolmates on the seventeenth, it would be better to in- 
dulge the fancy if he grew no worse. That he was glad to 
hear from Mrs. Pipchin that the little fellow would go to his 
friends in London on the eighteenth. That he would write to 
Mr. Dombey, when he should have gained a better knowledge 
of the case, and before that day. That there was no imme- 
diate cause for — what ? Paul lost that word. And that the 
little fellow had a fine mind, but was an old-fashioned boy. 

What old fashion could that be, Paul wondered with a pal- 
pitating heart, that was so visibly expressed in him ; so plain- 
ly seen by so many people ? 

He could neither make it out nor trouble himself long 
wdth the effort. Mrs. Pipchin was again beside him, if she 
had ever been away (he thought she had gone out with the 
Doctor, but it was all a dream perhaps), and presently a 
bottle and glass got into her hands magically, and she poured 
out the contents for him. After that, he had some real good 
jelly, whicTi Mrs. Blimber brought to him herself ; and then 
he was so well that Mrs. Pipchin went home, at his urgent 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBEr’s. 


157 


solicitation, and Briggs and Tozer came to bed. Poor Briggs 
grumbled terribly about his own analysis, which could hardly 
have discomposed him more if it had been a chemical pro- 
cess; but he was very good to Paul, and so was Tozer, and so 
were all the rest, for they every one looked in before going to 
bed, and said, “ How are you now, Dombey ? ” “ Cheer up, 
little Dombey,’^ and so forth. After Briggs had got into bed, 
he lay awake for a long time, still bemoaning his analysis, and 
saying he knew it was all wrong, and they couldn’t have ana- 
lyzed a murderer worse, and how would Dr. Blimber like it if 
his pocket-money depended on it ? It was very easy, Briggs 
said, to make a galley-slave of a boy all the half-year, and 
then score him up idle ; and to crib two dinners a week out 
of his board, and then score him up greedy ; but that wasn’t 
going to be submitted to, he believed, was it ? Oh ! Ah ! 

Before the weak-eyed young man performed on the gong 
next morning, he came up-stairs to Paul and told him he was 
to lie still, which Paul very gladly did. Mrs. Pipchin re- 
appeared a little before the apothecary, and a little after 
the good young woman whom Paul had seen cleaning the 
stove on that first morning (how long ago it seemed now !) 
had brought him his breakfast. There was another consul- 
tation a long way off, or else Paul dreamed it again ; and 
then the apothecary, coming back with Dr. and Mrs. Blimber, 
said : — 

“ Yes, I think. Dr. Blimber, we may release this young gen- 
tleman from his books just now ; the vacation being so very 
near at hand.” 

“ By all means,” said Dr. Blimber. “ My love, you will in- 
form Cornelia, if you please.” 

“ Assuredly,” said Mrs. Blimber. 

The apothecary bending down, looked closely into Paul’s 
eyes, and felt his head, and his pulse, and his heart, with so 
much interest and care, that Paul said, “ Thank you. Sir.” 


158 THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBEr’s. 

“ Our little friend,” obseiTcd Dr. Blimber, “ has never com- 
plained.” 

“ Oh no ! ” replied the apothecary. “ He was not likely 
to complain.” 

“You find him greatly better?” said Dr. Blimber. 

“ Oh ! he is greatly better, Sir,” returned the ajDOthecary. 

Paul had begun to speculate, in his own odd way, on the 
subject that might occupy the apothecary’s mind just at that 
moment, so musingly had he answered the two questions of 
Dr. Blimber. But the apothecary happening to meet his little 
patient’s eyes as the latter set off on that mental expedition, 
and coming instantly out of his abstraction with a cheerful 
smile, Paul smiled in return and abandoned it. 

He lay in bed all that day, dozing and dreaming, and look- 
ing at Mr. Toots ; but got up on the next, and went down- 
stairs. Lo and behold, there was something the matter with 
the great clock ; and a workman on a pair of steps had taken 
its face off, and was poking instruments into the works by the 
light of a candle ! This was a great event for Paul, who sat 
down on the bottom stair and watched the operation attentive- 
ly, now and then glancing at the clock face, leaning all askew 
against the wall hard by, and feeling a little confused by a sus- 
picion that it was ogling him. 

The workman on the steps v/as very civil ; and as he said, 
when he observed Paul, “ How do you do. Sir ? ” Paul got into 
conversation with him, and told him he hadn’t been quite well 
lately. The ice being thus broken, Paul asked him a multitude 
of questions about chimes and clocks ; as, whether people 
watched up in the lonely church steeples by night to make 
them strike ; and how the bells were rung when people died ; 
and whether those were diiferent bells from wedding bells, or 
only sounded dismal in the fancies of the living. Finding that 
his new acquaintance was not very well informed on the sub- 
ject of the Curfew Bell of ancient days, Paul gave him an ac- 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBEr’s. 


159 


count of that institution ; and also asked him, as a practical 
man, what he thought about King Alfred’s idea of measuring 
time by the burning of candles ; to which the workman replied, 
'^hat he thought it would be the ruin of the clock trade if it was 
'to com*e up again. In fine, Paul looked on until the clock had 
quite recovered its familiar aspect, and resumed its sedate in- 
quiry ; when the workman, putting away his tools in a long 
basket, bade him good-day, and went away. Though not be- 
fore he had whispered something, on the door-mat, to the foot- 
man, in which there was the phrase “ old-fashioned ” — for Paul 
heard it. 

What could that old fashion be, that seemed to make the 
people sorry ! What could it be 1 

Having nothing to learn now, he thought of this frequently ; 
though not so often as he might have done, if he had had few- 
er things to think of. But he had a great many; and was al- 
ways thinking, all day long. 

First, there was Florence coming to the party. Florence 
would see that the boys were fond of him ; and that would 
make her happy. This was his great theme. Let Florence 
once be sure that they were gentle and good to him, and that 
he had become a little favorite among them, and then she 
would always think of the time he had passed there, without 
being very sorry. Florence might be all the happier too for 
that, perhaps, when he came back. 

When he came back ! Fifty times a day his noiseless lit- 
tle feet went up the stairs to his own room, as he collected 
every book and scrap and trifle that belonged to him, and put 
them all together there, down to the minutest thing, for taking 
home ! There was no shade of coming back on little Paul ; 
no preparation for it, or other reference to it, grew out of any 
thing he thought or did, except this slight one in connection 
with his sister. On the contrary, he had to think of every 
thing familiar to him, in his contemplative moods and in his 


160 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLIMBEe’s. 


wanderings about the house, as being to be parted with ; and 
hence the many things he had to think of all day long. 

He had to peep into those rooms up-stairs, and think how 
solitary they would be when he was gone, and wonder through 
how many silent days, weeks, months, and years, they would 
continue just as grave and undisturbed. He had to think — 
would any other child (old-fashioned, like himself) stray there 
at any time — to whom the same grotesque distortions of pattern 
and furniture would manifest themselves ; and would anybody 
tell that boy of little Dombey, who had been there once. 

He had to think of a portrait on the stairs, which always 
looked earnestly after him as he went away, eyeing it over his 
shoulder ; and which, when he passed it in the company of any 
one, still seemed to gaze at him and not at his companion. 
He had much to think of in association with a print that hung 
up in another place, where, in the centre of a wondering group, 
one figure that he knew, a figure with a light about its head — 
benignant, mild, and merciful — stood pointing upward. 

At his own bedroom window there were crowds of thoughts 
that mixed with these, and came on, one upon another, like the 
rolling waves. Where those wild birds live, that were always 
hovering out at sea in troubled weather ; where the clouds rose 
and first began ; whence the wind issued on its rushing flight, 
and where it stopped ; whether the spot where he and Florence 
had so often sat, and watched, and talked about these things, 
could ever be exactly as it used to be without them ; whether 
it could ever be the same to Florence, if he were in some dis- 
tant place, and she were sitting there alone. 

He had to think, too, of Mr. Toots, and Mr. Feeder, B. A. ; 
of all the boys ; and of Doctor Blimber, Mrs. Blimber, and 
Miss Blimber ; of home, and of his aunt and Miss Tox ; of his 
father, Dombey & Son; Walter with the poor old uncle who 
had got the money he wanted, and that gruff-voiced captain 
with the iron hand. Besides all this, he had a number of little 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLIMBEe’s. 


161 


visits to pay, in the course of the day ; to the school-room, to 
Dr. Blimber’s study, to Mrs. Blimber’s private apartment, to 
Miss Blimber’s, and to the dog. For he was free of the whole 
house now to range it as he chose ; and, in his desire to part 
with everybody on affectionate terms, he attended, in his way, 
to them all. Sometimes he found places in books for Briggs, 
who was always losing them ; sometimes he looked up words 
in dictionaries for other young gentlemen who were in extrem- 
ity ; sometimes he held skeins of silk for Mrs Blimber to wind ; 
sometimes he put Cornelia’s desk to rights; sometimes he 
would even creep into the Doctor’s study, and, sitting on the 
carpet near his learned feet, turn the globes softly, and go 
round the world, or take a flight among the far-off stars. 

In those days immediately before the holidays, in short, 
when the other young gentlemen were laboring for dear life 
through a general resumption of the studies of the whole half year, 
Paul was such a privileged pupil as had never been seen in that 
house before. He could hardly believe it himself ; but his lib- 
erty lasted from hour to hour, and from day to day ; and little 
Dombey was caressed by every one. Dr. Blimber was so par- 
ticular about him, that he requested Johnson to retire from the 
dinner-table one day for having thoughtlessly spoken to him 
as “ poor little Dombey which Paul thought rather hard and 
severe, though he had flushed at the moment, and wondered / 
why Johnson should pity him. It was the more questionable 
justice, Paul thought, in the Doctor, from his having certainly 
overheard that great authority give his assent on the previous 
evening, to the proposition (stated by Mrs. Blimber), that poor 
dear little Dombey was more old-fashioned than ever. And 
now it was that Paul began to think it must surely be old-fash- 
ioned to be very thin, and light, and easily tired, and soon dis- 
posed to lie down anywhere and rest ; for he couldn’t help feeling 
that these were more and more his habits every day. 

At last the party-day arrived ; and Doctor Blimber said at 


162 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBEr’s. 


breakfast, “ Gentlemen, we will resume our studies on the twen- 
ty-fifth of next month,” Mr. Toots immediately threw off his 
allegiance and put on his ring ; and mentioning the Doctor in 
casual conversation shortly afterwards, spoke of him as “ Blim- 
ber ! ” This act of freedom inspired the older pupils with ad- 
miration and envy, but. the younger spirits were appalled, and 
seemed to marvel that no beam fell down and crushed him. 

Not the least allusion was made to the ceremonies of the 
evening either at breakfast or at dinner ; but there was a 
bustle in the house all day, and in the course of his perambu- 
lations, Paul made acquaintance with various strange benches 
and candlesticks, and met a harp in a green great-coat stand- 
ing on the landing outside the drawing-room door. There was 
something queer, too, about Mrs. Blimber’s head at dinner- 
time, as if she had screwed her hair up too tight ; and though 
Miss Blimber showed a graceful bunch of plaited hair on each 
temple, she seemed to have her own little curls in paper un- 
derneath, and in a play-bill too ; for Paul read “ Theatre Roy- 
al ” over one of her sparkling spectacles, and “ Brighton ” over 
the other. 

There was a grand array of white waistcoats and cravats 
in the young gentlemen’s bedrooms as evening approached ; 
and such a smell of singed hair, that Doctor Blimber sent up 
the footman with his compliments, and wished to know if the 
house was on fire. But it was only the hair-dresser curling the 
young gentlemen, and over-heating his tongs in the ardor of 
business. 

When Paul was dressed — which was very soon done, for he 
felt unwell and drowsy, and was not able to stand about it very 
long — he went down into the drawing-room, where he found Doc- 
tor Blimber pacing up and down the room full dressed, but with a 
dignified and unconcerned demeanor, as if he thought it barely 
possible that one or two people might drop in by and by. 
Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Blimber appeared, looking lovely. 


THE SCHOOL AT DK. BLIMBEK^S. 163 

Paul thought ; and attired in such a number of skirts that it 
was quite an excursion to walk round her. Miss Blimber 
came down soon after her mamma, a little squeezed in ap- 
pearance, but very charming. 

Mr. Toots and Mr. Feeder were the next arrivals. Each 
of these gentlemen brought his hat in his hand, as if he lived 
somewhere else ; and when they were announced by the but- 
ler, Doctor Blimber said, “ Aye, aye, aye ! God bless my soul ! ” 
and seemed extremely glad to see them. Mr. Toots was one 
blaze of jewelry and buttons ; and he felt the circumstance so 
strongly, that when he had shaken hands with the Doctor, and 
had bowed to Mrs. Blimber and Miss Blimber, he took Paul 
aside and said, AVhat do you think of this, Dombey ? ” 

But notwithstanding this modest confidence in himself, Mr. 
Toots appeared to be involved in a good deal of uncertainty 
whether, on the whole, it was judicious to button the bottom 
button of his waistcoat, and whether, on a calm revision of all 
the circumstances, it was best to wear his wristbands turned 
up or turned down. Observing that Mr. Feeder’s were 
turned up, Mr. Toots turned his up ; but the wristbands of the 
next arrival being turned down, Mr. Toots turned his down. 
The differences in point of waistcoat buttoning, not only at the 
bottom, but at the top too, became so numerous and complica- 
ted as the arrivals thickened, that Mr. Toots was continually 
fingering that article of dress, as if he were performing on 
some instrument, and appeared to find the incessant execu- 
tion it demanded quite bewildering. 

All the young gentlemen, tightly cravatted, curled, and 
pumped, and with their best hats in their hands, having been 
at different times announced and introduced, Mr. Baps, the 
dancing-master, came, accompanied by Mrs. Baps, to whom 
Mrs. Blimber was extremely kind and condescending. Mr. 
Baps was a very grave gentleman, with a slow and measured 
manner of speaking ; and before he had stood under the lamp 


164 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBEr’s. 


five minutes, he began to talk to Toots (who had been silently 
comparing pumps with him) about what you were to do with 
your raw materials when they came into your ports in return 
for your drain of gold. Mr. Toots, to whom the question 
seemed perplexing, suggested “ Cook ’em.” But Mr. Baps did 
not appear to think that would do. 

Paul now sliiDped away from the cushioned corner of a sofa, 
which had been his post of observation, and went down-stairs 
into the tea room to be ready for Florence, whom he had not 
seen for nearly a fortnight, as he had remained at Doctor Blim- 
ber’s on the previous Saturday and Sunday lest he should take 
cold. Presently she came, looking so beautiful in her simple 
ball dress, with her fresh flowers in her hand, that when she 
knelt down on the ground to take Paul round the neck and 
kiss him (for there was no one there but his friend and another 
young woman waiting to serve out the tea), he could hardly 
make up his mind to let her go again, or to take away her 
bright and loving eyes from his face. 

“ But what is the matter, Floy ? ” asked Paul, almost sure 
that he saw a tear there. 

“ Nothing, darling ; nothing,” returned Florence. 

Paul touched her cheek gently with his finger — and it 
a tear ! “ Why, Floy ! ” said he. 

“ We’ll go home together, and I’ll nurse you, love,” said 
Florence. 

“ Nurse me ! ” echoed Paul. 

Paul couldn’t understand what that had to do with it, nor 
why the two young women looked on so seriously, nor why 
Florence turned away her face for a moment, and then turned 
it back, lighted up again with smiles. 

“ Floy,” said Paul, holding a ringlet of her dark hair in his 
hand. “ Tell me, dear. Do think I have grown old- 
fashioned ? ” 

His sister laughed, and fondled him, and told him No.” 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBEr’s. 


165 


“Because I know they say so,” returned Paul, “and I want 
to know what they mean, Floy.” 

But a loud double knock coming at the door, and Florence 
hurrying to the table, there was no more said between them 
Paul wondered again when he saw his friend whisper to Flor- 
ence, as if she were comforting her ; but a new arrival put that 
out of his head speedily. 

It was Sir Barnet Skettles, Lady Skettles, and Master 
Skettles. Master Skettles was to be a new boy after the vaca- 
tion, and Fame had been busy, in Mr. Feeder’s room, with his 
father, who was in the House of Commons, and of whom Mr. 
Feeder had said that when he did catch the Speaker’s eye 
(which he had been expected to do for three or four years), it 
was anticipated that he would rather touch up the Radicals. 

“And what room is this now, for instance?” said Lady 
Skettles to Paul’s friend, ’Melia. 

“ Doctor Blimber’s study. Ma’am,” was the reply. 

Lady Skettles took a panoramic suiwey of it through her 
glass, and said to Sir Barnet Skettles, with a nod of approval, 
“Very good.” Sir Barnet assented, but Master Skettles look- 
ed suspicious and doubtful. 

“ And this little creature, now,” said Lady Skettles, turn- 
ing to Paul. “ Is he one of the — ” 

“ Young gentlemen. Ma’am ; yes. Ma’am,” said Paul’s friend. 

“ And what is your name, my pale child ? ” said Lady 
Skettles. 

“ Dombey,” answered Paul. 

Sir Barnet Skettles immediately interposed, and said that 
he had had the honor of meeting Paul’s father at a public din- 
ner, and that he hoped he was very well. Then Paul heard 
him say to Lady Skettles, “ City— very rich— most respectable 
— Doctor mentioned it.” And then he said to Paul, “ Will 
you tell your good Papa that Sir Barnet Skettles rejoiced to 
hear that he was very well, and sent him his best compliments? ” 


166 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLLVIBEr’s. 


“Yes, Sir,” answered Paul. 

“ That is my brave boy,” said Sir Barnet Skettles. “ Bar- 
net,” to Master Skettles, who was revenging himself for the 
studies to come on the plum-cake, “ this is a young gentleman 
you ought to know. This is a young gentleman you may know, 
Barnet,” said Sir Barnet Skettles, with an emphasis on the 
permission. 

“What eyes! What hair! What a lovely face!” ex- 
claimed Lady Skettles softly, as she looked at Florence through 
her glass. 

“ My sister,” said Paul, presenting her. 

The satisfaction of the Skettleses was now complete. And 
as Lady Skettles had conceived, at first sight, a liking for Paul, 
they all went up-stairs together. Sir Barnet Skettles taking care 
of Florence, and young Barnet following. 

Young Barnet did not remain long in the background after 
they had reached the drawing-room, for Doctor Blimber had 
him out in no time dancing with Florence. He did not 
appear to Paul to be particularly happy, or particularly any 
thing but sulky, or to care much what he was about ; but 
as Paul heard Lady Skettles say to Mrs. Blimber, while she 
beat time with her fan, that her dear boy was evidently smit- 
ten to death by that angel of a child, Miss Dombey, it would 
seem thatSkettles Junior was in a state of bliss, without show- 
ing it. 

Little Paul thought it a singular coincidence that nobody 
had occupied his place among the pillows ; and that when he 
came into the room again, they should all make way for him to 
go back to it, remembering it was his. Nobody stood before 
him either, when they observed that he liked to see Florence 
dancing ; but they left the space in front quite clear, so that he 
might follow her with his eyes. They were so kind, too, even 
the strangers, of whom there were soon a great many, that they 
came and spoke to him every now and then, and asked him 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLIMBEr’s. 


167 


how he was, and if his head ached, and whether he was tired. 
He was very much obliged to them for all their kindness and 
attention, and reclining propped up in his corner, with Mrs. 
Blimber and Lady Skettles on the same sofa, and Florence 
coming and sitting by his side as soon as every dance was 
ended, he looked on very happily indeed. 

Florence would have sat by him all night, and would not 
have danced at all of her own accord, but Paul made her, by 
telling her how much it pleased him. And he told her the 
truth, too ; for his small heart swelled, and his face glowed, 
when he saw how much they all admired her, and how she was 
the beautiful little rosebud of the room. 

From his nest among the pillows Paul could see and hear 
almost every thing that passed, as if the whole were being done 
for his amusement. Among other little incidents that he ob- 
served, he observed Mr. Baps, the dancing-master, get into con- 
versation with Sir Barnet Skettles, and very soon ask him, as 
he had asked Mr. Toots, what you were to do with your raw 
materials when they came into your ports in return for your 
drain of gold — which was such a mystery to Paul that he was 
quite desirous to know what ought to be done with them. Sir 
Barnet Skettles had much to say upon the question, and said 
it ; but it did not appear to solve the question, for Mr. Baps 
retorted. Yes, but supposing Russia stepped in with her tal- 
lows ; which struck Sir Barnet almost dumb, for he could only 
shake his head after that, and say, why then you must fall back 
upon your cottons, he supposed. 

Sir Barnet Skettles looked after Mr. Baps when he went to ' 
cheer up Mrs. Baps (who, being quite deserted, was pretend- 
ing to look over the music book of the gentleman who played 
the harp), as if he thought him a remarkable kind of a man ; 
and shortly afterv/ards he said so in those words to Dr. Blim- 
ber, and inquired if he might take the liberty of asking who he 
was, and whether he had even been in the Board of Trade. 


168 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLMBEr’s. 

Dr. Blimber answered No, he believed not ; and that in fact he 
was a Professor of — 

“ Of something connected with statistics, I’ll swear ? ” ob- 
served Sir Barnet Skettles. 

“ Why no. Sir Barnet,” replied Doctor Blimber, rubbing his 
chin. “ No, not exactly.” 

“ Figures of some sort, I would venture a bet,” said Sir 
Barnet Skettles. 

“ Why yes,” said Dr. Blimber, “ yes, but not of that sort. 
Mr. Baps is a very worthy sort of man. Sir Barnet, and — in 
fact he’s our professor of dancing.” 

Paul was amazed to see that this piece of information quite 
altered Sir Barnet Skettles’s opinion of Mr. Baps, and that Sir 
Barnet flew into a perfect rage, and glowered at Mr. Baps over 
on the other side of the room. He even went so far as to d 
Mr. Baps to Lady Skettles, in telling her what had happened, 
and to say that it was like his most con-sum-mate and con-foun- 
ded impudence. 

There was another thing that Paul observed. Mr. Feeder, 
after imbibing several custard-cups of negus, began to enjoy 
himself. The dancing in general was ceremonious, and the 
music rather solemn — a little like church music in fact — but 
after the custard-cups, Mr. Feeder told Mr. Toots that he was 
going to throw a little spirit into the thing. After that, Mr. 
Feeder not only began to dance as if he meant dancing and 
nothing else, but secretly to stimulate the music to perform 
wild tunes. Further, he became particular in his attentions to 
the ladies ; and dancing with Miss Blimber, whispered to her 
— whispered to her ! — though not so softly but that Paul heard 
him say this remarkable poetry, 

" Had I a heart for falsehood framed, 

I ne’er could injure You ! ” 

This Paul heard him repeat to four young ladies in succession. 


THE SCHOOL AT HE. BLIMBEr’s. 


1G9 


Well might Mr. Feeder say to Mr. Toots, that he was afraid 
he should be the worse for it to-morrow ! 

Mrs. Blimber was a little alarmed by this — comparatively 
speaking — profligate behavior ; and especially by the alteration 
in the character of the music, which, beginning to comprehend 
low melodies that were popular in the streets, might not un- 
naturally be supposed to give offence to Lady Skettles. But 
Lady Skettles was so very kind as to beg Mrs. Blimber not to 
mention it ; and to receive her explanation that Mr. Feeder’s 
spirits sometimes betrayed him into excesses on these occa- 
sions, with the greatest courtesy and politeness ; observing, 
that he seemed a very nice sort of person for his situation, and 
that she particularly liked the unassuming style of his hair — 
which (as already hinted) was about a quarter of an inch long. 

Once, when there was a pause in the dancing. Lady Sket- 
tles told Paul that he seemed very fond of music. Paul re- 
plied that he was ; and if she was too, she ought to hear his 
sister, Florence, sing. Lady Skettles presently discovered that 
she was dying with anxiety to have that gratification ; and 
though Florence was at first very much frightened at being 
asked to sing before so many people, and begged earnestly to 
be excused, yet, on Paul calling her to him, and saying, “ Do 
Floy I Please ! For me, my dear ! ” she went straight to the 
piano and began. When they all drew a little away, that Paul 
might see her, and when he saw her sitting there alone, so 
young, and good, and beautiful, and kind to him, and heard 
her thrilling voice, so natural and sweet, and such a golden 
link betv/een him and all his life’s love and happiness, rising 
out of the silence, he turned his face away and hid his tears. 
Not, as he told them when they spoke to him, not that the mu- 
sic was too plaintive or too sorrowful, but it was so dear to 
him. 

They all loved Florence ! How could they help it ! Paul 
had known beforehand that they must and would ; and sitting 
8 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLIifBER’s. 

in his cushioned corner, with calmly folded hands and one leg; 
loosely doubled under him, few would have thought what tri- 
umph and delight expanded his childish bosom while he watch- 
ed her, or what a sweet tranquillity he felt. Lavish encomiums 
on “ Dombey’s sister ” reached his ears from all the boys ; ad- 
miration of the self-possessed and modest little beauty was on 
every lip; reports of her intelligence and accomplishments 
floated past him constantly ; and, as if borne in upon the air 
of the summer night, there was a half-intelligible sentiment dif- 
fused around, referring to Florence and himself, and breathing 
sympathy for both, that soothed and touched him. 

He did not know why. For all that the child observed, 
and felt, and thought, that night — the present and the absent, 
what was then and what had been — were blended like the col- 
ors in the rainbow, or in the plumage of rich birds when the 
sun is shining on them, or in the softening sky when the same 
sun is setting. The many things he had bad to think of lately 
passed before him in the music ; not as claiming his attention 
over again, or as likely evermore to occupy it, but as peaceful- 
ly disposed of and gone. A solitary window, gazed through 
years ago, looked out upon an ocean miles and miles away j 
upon its water-s fancies, busy with him only yesterday, were 
hushed and lulled 'to rest like broken waves. The same mys- 
terious murmur he had wondered at, when lying on his couch 
upon the beach, he thought he still heard sounding through his 
sister’s song, and through the hum of voices and the tread of 
feet, and having some part in the faces flitting by, and even in 
the heavy gentleness of Mr. Toots, who frequently came up to 
shake him by the hand. Through the universal kindness he 
still thought he heard it, speaking to him ; and even his old- 
fashioned reputation seemed to be allied to it, he knew not 
how. Thus little Paul sat musing, listening, looking on and 
dreaming, and was very happy until the time arrived for tak- 
ing leave ; and then, indeed, there was a sensation in the party. 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBEr’s. 


171 


Sir Barnet Skettles brought up Skettles Junior to shake hands 
with him, and asked him if he would remember to tell his good 
Papa, with his best compliments, that he, Sir Barnet Skettles, 
had said he hoped the two young gentlemen w'ould become 
intimately acquainted. Lady Skettles kissed him, and parted 
his hair upon his brow, and held him in her arms ; and even 
Mrs. Baps — poor Mrs. Baps ! Paul was glad of that — came 
over from beside the music-book of the gentleman who played 
the harp, and took leave of him quite as heartily as anybody in 
the room. 

“Good-by, Dr. Blimber,” said Paul, stretching out his 
hand. 

“Good-by, my little friend,” returned the Doctor. 

“ I’m very much obliged to you. Sir,” said Paul, looking in- ^ 
nocently up into his awful face. “ Ask them to take care of 
Diogenes, if you please.” 

Diogenes was the dog, who had never in his life received 
a friend into his confidence before Paul. The Doctor prom- 
ised that every attention should be paid to Diogenes in Paul’s 
absence ; and Paul having again thanked him, and shaken 
hands with him, bade adieu to Mrs. Blimber and Cornelia wfith 
such heartfelt earnestness that Mrs. Blimber forgot from that 
moment to mention Cicero to Lady Skettles, though she had 
fully intended it all the evening. Cornelia, taking both Paul’s 
hands in hers, said, “ Dombey, Dombey, you have always been 
my favorite pupil. God bless you ! ” And it showed, Paul 
thought, how easily one might do injustice to a person ; for 
Miss Blimber meant it — though she was a Forcer — and felt it. 

A buzz went round among the young gentlemen of “ Dom- 
bey’s going ! ” “ Little Dombey’s going ! ” and there was a 

general move after Paul and Florence down the staircase and 
into the hall, in which the whole Blimber family were included. 
Such a circumstance, Mr. Feeder said aloud, as had never hap- 
pened in the case of any former young gentleman within his 


1Y2 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLIMBER S. 


experience ; but it would be difficult to say if this were sober 
fact or custard cups. The servants, with the butler at their 
head, had all an interest in seeing Little Dombey go ; and even 
the weak-eyed young man, taking out his books and trunks to 
the coach that was to carry him and Florence to Mrs. Pipchin’s 
for the night, melted visibly. 

Not even the influence of the softer passion on the young 
gentlemen — and they all, to a boy, doated on Florence — could 
restrain them from taking quite a noisy leave of Paul ; waving 
hats after him, pressing down-stairs to shake hands with him, 
crying individually “ Dombey, don’t forget me ! ” and indulging 
in many such ebullitions of feeling uncommon among those 
young Chesterfields. Paul whispered Florence, as she wrapped 
him up before the door was opened. Did she hear -them? 
Would she ever forget it ? Was she glad to know it ? And a 
lively delight was in his eyes as he spoke to her. . 

Once, for a last look, he turned and gazed upon the faces 
thus addressed to him, surprised to see how shining and how 
bright and numerous they were, and how they were all piled 
and heaped up, as faces are at crowded theatres. They swam 
before him as he looked, like faces in an agitated glass ; and 
next moment he was in the dark coach outside, holding close 
to Florence. From that time, whenever he thought of Doctor 
Blimber’s, it came back as he had seen it in this last view ; and 
it never seemed to be a real place again, but always a dream, 
full of eyes. 

This was not quite the last of Doctor Blimber’s, however. 
There was something else. There was Mr. Toots, who, un- 
expectedly letting down one of the coach-windows, and looking 
in, said, with a most egregious chuckle, “ Is Dombey there ? ” 
and immediately put it up again, without waiting for an answer. 
Nor was this quite the last, of Mr. Toots, even ; for before the 
coachman could drive off, he as suddenly let down the other 
window, and looking in with a precisely similar chuckle, said 


TltE SCHOOL AT HE. BLIMBEr’s. 


173 


in a precisely similar tone of voice, “Is Dombey there?” and 
disappeared precisely as before. 

How Florence laughed ! Paul often remembered it, and 
laughed himself whenever he did so. 

But there was much, soon afterwards — next day, and after 
that — which Paul could only recollect confusedly. As, why 
they stayed at Mrs. Pipchin’s days and nights, instead of go- 
ing home ; why he lay in bed, with Florence sitting by his side ; 
whether that had been his father in the room, or only a tall 
shadow on the wall ; whether he had heard his Doctor say, of 
some one, that if they had removed him before the occa- 
sion on which he had built up fancies, strong in proportion to 
his own weakness, it was very possible he might have pined 
away. 

He could not even remember whether he had often said to 
Florence, “ Oh Floy, take me home, and never leave me ! ” 
but he thought he had. He fancied sometimes he had heard 
himself repeating, “ Take me home, Floy ! take me home ! ” 

But he could remember, when he got home, and was car- 
ried up the well-remembered stairs, that there had been a 
rumbling of a coach for many hours together, while he lay upon 
the seat, with Florence still beside him, and old Mrs. Pipchin 
sitting opposite. He remembered his old bed too, when they 
laid him down in it ; his aunt. Miss Tox, and Susan ; but 
there was something else, and recent too, that still perplexed 
him. 

“ I want to speak to Florence, if you please,” he said. 
“ To Florence by herself, for a moment ! ” 

She bent down over him, and the others stood away. 

“ Floy, my pet, wasn’t that Papa in the hall when they 
brought me from the coach ? ” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“ He didn’t cry, and go into his room, Floy, did he, when 
he saw me coming in ? ” 


174 THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBEe’s. 

Florence shook her head, and pressed her lips against his 
cheek. 

“ I’m very glad he didn’t cry,” said little Paul, “ I thought 
he did. Don’t tell them that I asked.” 

***** 

Paul had never risen from his little bed. He lay there, lis- 
tening to the noises in the street, quite tranquilly, not caring 
much how the time went, but watching every thing about him 
with observing eyes. 

When the sunbeams struck into his room through the rust- 
ling blinds, and quivered on the opposite wall like golden wa- 
ter, he knew that evening was coming on, and that the sky was 
red and beautiful. As the reflection died away, and a gloom 
went creeping up the v/all, he watched it deepen, deepen, deep- 
en, into night. Then he thought how the long streets were 
dotted with lamps, and how the peaceful stars were shining 
overhead. His fancy had a strange tendency to wander to the 
river, which he knew was flowing through the great city ; and 
now he thought how black it was, and how deep it would look, 
reflecting the hosts of stars — and more than all, how steadily it 
rolled away to meet the sea. 

As it grew later in the night, and footsteps in the street be- 
came so rare that he could hear them coming, count them as 
they passed, and lose them in the hollow distance, he would 
lie and watch the many-colored ring about the candle, and 
wait patiently for day. His only trouble was the swift and 
rapid river. He felt forced, sometimes, to try to stop it — to stem 
it with his childish hands — or choke it away with sand — 
and when he saw it coming on resistless, he cried out ! But a 
word from Florence, who was always at his side, restored him 
to himself ; and leaning his poor head upon her breast, he told 
Floy of his dream and smiled. 

When day began to dawn again, he watched for the sun ; 
and when its cheerful light began to sparkle in the room, he 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLTMBEr’s. 


175 


pictured to himself^pictured ! he saw the high church towers 
rising up into the morning sky, tlie town reviving, waking, start- 
ing into life once more, the river glistening as it rolled (but 
rolling fast as ever), and the country white with dew. Famil- 
iar sounds and cries came by degrees in the street below ; the 
servants in the house were roused and busy ; faces looked in 
at the door, and voices asked his attendants softly how he was. 
Paul always answered for himself, “ I am better. I am a great 
deal better, thank you. Tell Papa so J 

By little and little he got tired of the bustle of the day, the 
noise of carriages and carts, and people passing and re-passing, 
and would fall asleep, or be troubled with a restless and un- 
easy sense again — the child could hardly tell whether this were 
in his sleeping or his waking moments — of that rushing river. 
‘‘Why, will it never stop, Floy? ” he would sometimes ask her. 
“ It is bearing me away, I think ! ” 

But Floy could always soothe and re-assure him ; and it was 
his daily delight to make her lay her head down on his pillow, 
and take some rest. 

“ You are always watching me, Floy. Let me watch you, 
now 1 ” They would prop him up with cushions in the corner of 
his bed, and there he would recline the while she lay beside 
him ; bending forward oftentimes to kiss her, and whispering 
to those who were near that she was tired, and how she had sat 
up so many nights beside him. 

Thus the flush of the day, in its heat and light, would grad- 
ually decline ; and again the golden water would be dancing on 
tlie wall. 

He was \dsited by as many as three grave doctors — they 
used to assemble down-stairs, and come up together — and the 
room was so quiet, and Paul was so observant of them (though 
he never asked of anybody what they said), that he even knew 
tlie diflerence in the sound of their watches. But his interest 
centred in Sir Parker Peps, who always took his seat on the 


176 THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLTMBEr’s. 

» 

side of the bed. For Paul had heard them say long ago, that 
that gentleman had been with his mamma when she clasped 
Florence in her arms and died. And he could not forget it 
now. He liked him for it. He was not afraid. 

The people around him changed as unaccountably as on 
that first night at Dr. Blimber’s — except Florence ; Florence 
never changed — and what had been Sir Parker Peps, was now 
his father, sitting with his head upon his hand. Old Mrs. Pip- 
chin, dozing in an easy-chair, often changed to Miss Tox, or his 
aunt ; and Paul was quite content to shut his eyes again, and 
see what happened next without emotion. But this figure with 
its head upon its hand returned so often, and remained so long, 
and sat so still and solemn, never speaking, never being spo- 
ken to, and rarely lifting up his face, that Paul began to wonder 
languidly if it were real ; and in the night-time saw it sitting 
there with fear. 

“ Floy ! ” he said, “ what is that ? 

“ .Where, dearest ? ” 

“ There I at the bottom of the bed.” 

“ There’s nothing there except Papa ! ” 

The figure lifted up its head, and rose, and coming to the 
bedside, said : “ My own boy ! Don’t you know me ? ” 

Paul looked it in the face, and thought, was this his father ? 
But the face so altered to his thinking, thrilled while he gazed, 
as if it were in pain ; and before he could reach out both hands 
to take it between them, and draw it towards him, the figure 
turned away quickly from the little bed, and went out at the 
door. 

Paul looked at Florence with a fluttering heart, but he 
knew what she was going to say, and stopped her with his face 
against her lips. The next time he observed the figure sitting 
at the bottom of the bed, he called to it. 

“Don’t be so sorry for me, dear Papa! Indeed I am 
quite happy ! ” 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBER’s. 


177 


His father coming and bending down to him, — which he 
did quickly, and without first pausing by the bedside, — Paul 
held him round the neck, and repeated those words to him sev- 
eral times, and very earnestly ; and Paul never saw him in his 
room again at any time, whether it were day or night, but he 
called out, “ Don’t be so sorry for me ! Indeed I am quite hap- 
py ! ” This was the beginning of his always saying in the morn- 
ing that he was a great deal better, and that they were to tell 
his father so. 

How many times the golden water danced upon the wall 1 
how many nights the dark river rolled towards the sea in spite 
of him, Paul never counted, never sought to know. If their 
kindness or his sense of it could have increased, they were 
more kind, and he more grateful every day ; but whether they 
were many days or few, appeared of little moment now to the 
gentle boy. 

One night he had been thinking of his mother, and her pic- 
ture in the drawing-room down -stairs, and thought she must 
have loved sweet Florence better than his father did, to have 
held her in her arms when she felt that she was dying — for 
even he, her brother, who had such dear love for her, could 
have no greater wish than that. The train of thought suggest- 
ed to him to inquire if he had ever seen his mother ; for he 
could not remember whether they had told him, yes or no, the 
river running very fast and confusing his mind. 

“ Floy, did I ever see mamma ? ” 

“No, darling ; why?” 

“ Did I ever see any kind face, like mamma’s, looking at 
me when I was a baby, Floy ? ” 

He asked incredulously, as if he had some vision of a face 
before him. 

“ Oh yes, dear ! ” 

“ Whose, Floy ? ” 

“ Your old nurse’s. Often. ” 

8 * ; 


178 THE SCHOOL AT DE. BLIMBEe’s. 

“ And where is my old nurse ? ’’ said Paul. “ Is she dead 
too ? Floy, are we all dead, except you ? ” 

There was a hurry in the room, for an instant, — longer, per- 
haps ; but it seemed no more, — then all was still again ; and 
Florence, with her face quite colorless, but smiling, held his 
head upon her arm. Her arm trembled very much. 

“ Show me that old nurse, Floy, if you please ? ” 

“ She is not here, darling. She shall come to-morrow.” 

“ Thank you, Floy ! ” 

Paul closed his eyes with those words, and fell asleep. 
When he awoke the sun was high and the broad day was 
clear and warm. He lay a little looking at the windows, 
which were open, and the curtains rustling in the air and wav- 
ing to and fro ; then he said, “ Floy, is it to-morrow ? Is she 
come ? ” 

Some one seemed to go in quest of her. Perhaps it was 
Susan. Paul thought he heard her telling him, when he had 
closed his eyes again, that she would soon be back ; but he 
did not open them to see. She kept her word, — perhaps she 
had never been away, — but the next thing that happened was 
a noise of footsteps on the stairs, and then Paul woke — woke 
mind and body — and sat upright in his bed. He saw them 
now about him. There was no gray mist before them, as there 
had been sometimes in the night. He knew them every one, 
and called them by their names. 

“ And who is this ? Is this my old nurse ? ” said the child, 
regarding with a radiant smile a figure coming in. 

Yes, yes. No other stranger would have shed those tears 
at sight of him, and called him her dear boy, her pretty boy, 
her own poor blighted child. No other woman would have 
stooped down by his bed and taken up his wasted hand and 
put it to her lips and breast, as one who had some right to 
fondle it. No other woman would have so forgotten every- 
body there but him and Floy, and been so full of tenderness 
and pity. 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBEr’s. 


179 


** Floy ! this is a kind good face ! ” said Paul. “ I am glad 
to see it again. Don’t go away old nurse ! Stay here.” 

His senses were all quickened, and he heard a name he 
knew. 

“Who was that — who said ‘ Walter 1’” he asked, looking 
round. “ Some one said Walter. Is he here I should like 
to see him very much.” 

Nobody replied directly ; but his father soon said to Susan, 
“ Call him back, then ; let him come up ! ” After a short pause 
of expectation, during which he looked with smiling interest 
and wonder on his nurse, and saw that she had not forgotten 
Floy, Walter was brought into the room. His open face and 
manner, and his cheerful eyes, had always made him a favorite 
with Paul ; and when Paul saw him, he stretched out his 
hand, and said, “ Good-by ! ” 

“Good-by, ray child?” cried Mrs. Pipchin, hurrying to 
his bed’s head. “ Not good-by i ” 

For an instant, Paul looked at her with the wistful face with 
v/hich he had so often gazed upon her in his corner by the fire, 
“ Ah yes,” he said placidly, “ good-by ! Walter dear, good- 
by ! ” — turning his head to where he stood, and putting oqt 
his hand again. “ Where is Papa ? ” 

He felt his father’s breath upon his cheek before the words 
had parted from his lips. 

“Remember Walter, dear Papa,” he whispered, looking 
in his face. “Remember Walter. I was fond of Walter!” 
The feeble hand waved in the air, as if it cried “ Good-by 1 ” 
to Walter once again. 

“ Now lay me down,” he said, “ and Floy, come close to 
me, and let me see you ! ” 

Sister and brother wound their arms around each other, 
and the golden light came streaming in and fell upon them 
locked together. 

“ How fast the river runs between its green banks and the 


180 THE SCHOOL AT DR. BLIMBEr’s. 

rushes, Floy ! But it’s very near the sea. I hear the waves ! 
They always said so ! ” 

Presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the 
stream was lulling him to rest. How green the banks were 
now, how bright the flowers growing on them, and how tall the 
rushes ! Now the boat was out at sea, but gliding smoothly on. 
And now there was a shore before him. Who stood on the 
bank ! 

He put his hands together, as he had been used to do at 
his prayers. He did not remove his arms to do it ; but they 
saw him fold them so behind her neck. 

“ Mamma is like you, Floy. I know her by the face ! But 
tell them that the print upon the stairs at school is not divine 
enough. The light about the head is shining on me as I 
go!" 

The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and noth- 
ing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion! The 
fashion that came in with our first garments, and will last un- 
changed until our race has run its course, and the wide firma- 
ment is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old fashion — 
Death ! 

Oh, thank God, all who see it, for that older fashion yet, 
of Immortality ! And look upon us, angels of young children, 
with regards not quite estranged, when the swift river bears us 
to the ocean ! 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOHSE. 



I 


4 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOHSE. 


[from “DAVID COPPERFIELD.”] 


A SHORT walk brought us — I mean the master and me — to 
Salem House, which was enclosed with a high brick wall, 
and looked very dull. Over a door in this wall was a board with 
Salem House upon it ; and through a grating in this door we 
were surveyed, when we rang the bell, by a surly face, which 
I found, on the door being opened, belonged to a stout man 
with a bull-neck, a wooden leg, overhanging temples, and his 
hair cut close all round his head. 

“ The new boy,” said the master. 

The man with the wooden leg eyed me all over — it didn’t 
take long, for there was not much of me — and locked the gate 
behind us, and took out the key. We were going up to the 
house, among some dark, heavy trees, when he called after my 
conductor. 

Hallo ! ” 

We looked back, and he was standing at the door of a lit- 
tle lodge, where he lived, with a pair of boots in his hand. 

Here ! The cobbler’s been,” he said, since you’ve been 
out, Mr. Mell, and he says he can’t mend ’em any more. He 
says there a’n’t a bit of the original boot left, and he wonders 
you expect it.” 


184 


THE SCHOOL AT. SALEM HOUSE. 


With these words he threw the boots towards Mr. Mell, 
who went back a few paces to pick them up, and looked at 
them, very disconsolately, I was afraid, as we went on togeth- 
er. I observed then, for the first time, that the boots he had on 
were a good deal the worse for wear, and that his stock- 
ing was just breaking out in one place, like a bud. 

Salem House was a square brick building with wings ; of 
a bare and unfurnished appearance. All about it was so very 
quiet, that I said to Mr. Mell I supposed the boys were out ; 
but he seemed surprised at my not knowing that it was holi- 
day-time. That all the boys were at their several homes. 
That Mr. Creakle, the proprietor, was down by the sea-side 
with Mrs. and Miss Creakle ; and that I was sent in holiday- 
time as a punishment for my misdoing, all of which he ex- 
plained to me as we went along. 

I gazed upon the school-room into which he took me, as 
the most forlorn and desolate place I had ever seen. I see it 
now. A long room, with three long rows of desks, and six of 
forms, and bristling all round with pegs for hats and slates. 
Scraps of old copy-books and exercises litter the dirty floor. 
Some silkworms’ houses, made of the same materials, are scat- 
tered over the desks. Two miserable little white mice, left be- 
hind by their owner, are running up and down in a fusty castle 
made of pasteboard and wire, looking in all the corners with 
their red eyes for any thing to eat. A bird, in a cage, very lit- 
tle bigger than himself, makes a mournful rattle now and then 
in hopping on his perch, two inches high, or dropping from it ; 
but neither sings nor chirps. There is a strange, unwholesome 
smell upon the room, like mildewed corduroys, sweet apples 
wanting air, and rotten books. There could not well be more 
ink splashed about it if it had been roofless from its first con- 
struction, and the skies had rained, snowed, hailed, and blown 
ink through the varying seasons of the year. 

Mr. Mell having left me while he took his irreparable boots 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOUSE. 


185 


up-stairs, I went softly to the upper end of the room, observing 
all this as I crept along. Suddenly I came upon a pasteboard 
placard, beautifully written, which was lying on the desk, and 
bore these words — “ Take care of him. He bites.'' 

I got upon the desk immediately, apprehensive of at least 
a great dog underneath. But, though I looked all round with 
anxious eyes, I could see nothing of him. I was still engaged 
in peering about, when Mr. Mell came back, and asked me 
what I did up there. 

“ I beg your pardon, Sir,” says I, “ if you please, I’m look- 
ing for the dog.” 

“ Dog .? ” says he. “ What dog ? ” 

“ Isn’t it a dog. Sir } ” 

“ Isn’t what a dog ? ” 

“ That’s to be taken care of, Sir ; that bites.” 

“No, Copperfield,” says he gravely, “that’s not a dog. 
That’s a boy. My instructions are, Copperfield, to put this 
placard on your back. I am sorry to make such a beginning 
with you, but I must do it.” 

With that he took me down, and tied the placard, which 
was neatly constructed for the purpose, on my shoulders like 
a knapsack ; and wherever I went, afterwards, I had the con- 
solation of carrying it. 

What I suffered from that placard, nobody can imagine. 
Whether it was possible for people to see me or not, I always 
fancied that somebody was reading it. It was no relief to 
turn round and find nobody ; for wherever my back was, there 
I imagined somebody always to be. That cruel man with the 
wooden leg aggravated my sufferings. He was in authority; 
and if he ever saw me leaning against a tree or a wall, or the 
house, he roared out from his lodge-door in a stupendous 
voice, “Hallo, you. Sir! You Copperfield! Show that 
badge conspicuous, or I’ll report you ! ” The play-ground 
was a bare gravelled yard, open to all the back of the house 


186 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOUSE. 


and the offices ; and I knew that the servants read it, and 
the butcher read it, and the baker read it ; that everybody, in 
a word, who came backwards and forwards to the house, of a 
morning when I was ordered to walk there, read that I was to 
be taken care of, for I bit. I recollect that I positively began 
to have a dread of»myself, as a kind of wild boy who did bite. 

There was an old door in this play-ground, on which the 
boys had a custom of carving their names. It was com- 
pletely covered with such inscriptions. In my dread of the 
end of the vacation and their coming back, I could not read 
a boy’s name without inquiring in what tone and with what 
emphasis would read, “ Take care of him. He bites.” 
There was one boy — a certain J. Steerforth — who cut his 
name very deep and very often, who, I conceived, would read 
it in a rather strong voice, and afterwards pull my hair. There 
was another boy, one Tommy Traddies, who I dreaded would 
make game of it, and pretend to be dreadfully frightened of 
me. There was a third, George Demple, who I fancied 
would sing it. I have looked, a little shrinking creature, at 
that door until the owners of all the names — there were forty- 
and-five of them in the school then, Mr. Mell said, seemed to 
send me to Coventry by general acclamation, and to cry out, 
each in his own way, “ Take care of him. He bites.” 

It was the same with the places at the desks and forms. 
It was the same with the groves of deserted bedsteads 
I peeped at, on my way to, and when I was in, my own 
bed. I remember dreaming night after night, of being with 
my mother as she used to be, or of going to a party at Mr. 
Peggotty’s, or travelling outside the stage-coach, or of din- 
ing again with my unfortunate friend the waiter, and in all 
these circumstances making people scream and stare, by the 
unhappy disclosure that I had nothing on but my little night- 
shirt and that placard. 

In the monotony of my life, and in my constant appre- 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOUSE. 


187 


hension of the re-opening of the school, it was such an in- 
supportable affliction ! I had long tasks every day to do with 
Mr. Mell ; but I did them, and got through them without dis- 
grace. Before, and after them, I walked about — supervised, 
as I have mentioned, by the man with the wooden leg. How 
vividly I call to mind the damp about the house, the green 
cracked flag-stones in the court, an old leaky water butt, 
and the discolored trunks of some of the grim trees, which 
seemed to have dripped more in the rain than other trees, 
and to have blown less in the sun ! At one we dined, Mr. 
Mell and I, at the upper end of a long bare dining-room, full 
of deal tables, and smelling of fat. Then we had more tasks 
until tea, which Mr. Mell drank out of a blue teacup and I 
out of a tin pot. All day long and until seven or eight in the 
evening, Mr. Mell, at his own detached desk in the school- 
room, worked hard with pen, ink, ruler, books, and writing- 
paper, making out the bills (as I found) for last half-year. 
When he had put up his things for the night, he took out his 
flute, and blew at it until I almost thought he would gradually 
blow his whole being into the large hole at the top, and ooze 
away at the keys. 

I picture my small self in the dimly-lighted rooms, sitting 
with my head upon my hand, listening to the doleful perform- 
ance of Mr. Mell, and conning to-morrow’s lessons. I picture 
myself with my books shut up, still listening to the doleful per- 
formance of Mr. Mell, and listening through it to what used to 
be at home, and to the blowing of the wind on Yarmouth flats, 
and feeling very sad and solitary. I picture myself going up 
to bed, among the unused rooms, and sitting on my bedside 
crying for a comfortable word from Peggotty. I picture my- 
self coming down-stairs in the morning, and looking through a 
long ghastly gash of a staircase window, at the school bell 
hanging on the top of an out-house, with a weathercock above 
it ; and dreading the time when it shall ring J. Steerforth and 


188 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOUSE. 


the rest to work ; which is only second, in my foreboding appre- 
hensions, to the time when the man with the wooden leg shall 
unlock the rusty gate to give admission to the awful Mr. 
Creakle. I cannot think I was a very dangerous character in 
any of these aspects, but in all of them I carried the same 
warning on my back. 

Mr. Mell never said much to me, but he was never harsh 
to me. I suppose we were company to each other, without 
talking. I forgot to mention that he would talk to himself 
sometimes, and grin, and clinch his fist, and grind his teeth, 
and pull his hair in an unaccountable manner. But he had 
these peculiarities ; and at first they frightened me, though I 
soon got used to them. 

I had led this life about a month when the man with the 
wooden leg began to stump about with a mop and a bucket of 
water, from which I inferred that preparations were making to 
receive Mr. Creakle and the boys. I was not mistaken ; for 
the mop came into the school- room before long, and turned 
out Mr. Mell and me, who lived where we could, and got on 
how we could, for some days, during which we were always in 
the way of two or three young women, who had rarely shown 
themselves before, and were so continually in the midst of dust 
that I sneezed almost as much as if Salem House had been a 
great snuff-box. 

One day I was informed by Mr. Mell that Mr. Creakle 
would be home that evening. . In the evening, after tea, I 
heard that he was come. Before bedtime, I was fetched by 
the man with the wooden leg to appear before him. 

Mr. Creakle’s part of the house was a good deal more com- 
fortable than ours, and he had a snug bit of garden that looked 
pleasant after the dusty play-ground, which was such a desert 
in miniature, that I thought no one but a camel, or a dromeda- 
ry, could have felt at home in it. It seemed to me a bold thing 
even to take notice that the passage looked comfortable, as I 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOUSE. 


1S9 


went on my way, trembling to Mr. Creakle^s presence ; which 
so abashed me, when I was ushered into it, that I hardly saw 
Mrs. Creakle or Miss Creakle, who were both there in the par- 
lor, or any thing but Mr. Creakle, a stout gentleman with a 
bunch of watch-chain and seals, in an arm-chair, with a tum- 
bler and bottle beside him. 

“ So ! ” said Mr. Creakle, “ this is the young gentleman, 
whose teeth are to be filed ! Turn him round.” 

The wooden- legged man turned me about so as to exhibit 
the placard ; and having afforded time for a full survey of it, 
turned me about again, with my face to Mr. Creakle, and post- 
ed himself at Mr. Creakle’s side. Mr. Creakle’s face was 
fiery, and his eyes were small, and deep in his head ; he had 
thick veins in his forehead, a little nose, and a large chin. He 
was bald on the top of his head ; and had some thin wet-looking 
hair that was just turning gray, brushed across each temple, 
so that the two sides interlaced on his forehead. But the cir- 
cumstance about him which impressed me most, was, that he 
had no voice, but spoke in a whisper. The exertion this cost 
him, or the consciousness of talking in that feeble way, made 
his angry face so much more angry, and his thick veins so 
much thicker, when he spoke, that I am not surprised, 
on looking back, at this peculiarity striking me as his chief 
one. 

“ Now,”* said Mr. Creakle, “ what’s the report of this 
boy ? ” 

“ There’s nothing against him yet,” returned the man with 
the wooden leg. “ There has been no opportunity.” - 

I thought Mr. Creakle was disappointed. I thought Mrs. 
and Miss Creakle, at whom I now glanced for the first time, 
and who were both thin and quiet, were not disappointed. 

“ Conje here. Sir ! ” said Mr. Creakle, beckoning to me. 

“ Come here ! ” said the man with the wooden leg, repeat- 
ing the gesture. 


190 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOUSE. 


“I have the happiness of knowing your father-in-law,’^ 
whispered Mr. Creakle, taking me by the ear ; “ and a worthy 
man he is, and a man of a strong character. He knows me, 
and I know him. you know me ? Hey ? ” said Mr. Creakle, 
pinching my ear with ferocious playfulness. 

“Not yet, Sir,” I said, flinching with the pain. 

“ Not yet ? Hey ? ” repeated Mr. Creakle. “ But you will 
soon. Hey ? ” 

“ You will soon. Hey ? ” repeated the man with the wooden 
leg. I afterwards found that he generally acted, with his strong 
voice, as Mr. Creakle’s interpreter to the boys. 

I was very much frightened, and said I hoped so, if he 
pleased. I felt, all this while, as if my ear were blazing, he 
pinched it so hard. 

“ I’ll tell you what I am,” whispered Mr. Creakle, letting it 
go at last, with a screw at parting that brought the water into 
my eyes, “ I’m a Tartar.” 

“A Tartar,” said the man with the wooden leg. 

“ When I say I’ll do a thing, I do it,” said Mr. Creakle ; 
“ and when I say I will have a thing done, I will have it done.” 

“ — -Will have a thing done, I will have it done,” repeated 
the man with the wooden leg. 

“ I am a determined character,” said Mr. Creakle. “ That’s 
what I am. I do my duty. That’s what / do. My flesh and 
blood — ” he looked at Mrs. Creakle as he said this — “ when it 
rises against me, is not my flesh and blood. I discard it. Has 
that fellow,” to the man with the wooden leg, “been here 
again ? ” 

“ No,” was the answer. 

“ No,” said Mr. Creakle. “ He knows better. He knows 
me. Let him keep away. I say let him keep away,” said Mr. 
Creakle, striking his hand on the table, and looking at Mrs. 
Creakle, “for he knows me. Now you have begun to know 
me too, my young friend, and you may go. Take him away.” 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOUSE. 


191 


I was very glad to be ordered away, for Mrs. and Miss 
Creakle were both wiping their eyes, and I felt as uncomfortable 
for them as I did for myself. But I had a petition on my 
mind which concerned me so nearly, that I couldn’t help say- 
ing, though I wondered at my own courage : 

“ If you please. Sir” — 

Mr. Creakle whispered, “ Hah ? What’s this ? ” and bent 
his eyes upon me, as if he would have burnt me up with 
them. 

“ If you please. Sir,” I faltered, “ if I might be allowed (I 
am very sorry indeed, Sir, for what I did) to take this writing 
off before the boys come back” — 

Whether Mr. Creakle was in earnest, or whether he only 
did it to frighten me, I don’t know, but he made a burst out 
of his chair, before which I precipitately retreated, without 
waiting for the escort of the man with the wooden leg, and 
never once stopped until I reached my own bedroom, where, 
finding I was not pursued, I went to bed, as it was time, and 
lay quaking for a couple of hours. 

Next morning Mr. Sharp came back. Mr. Sharp was the 
first master, and superior to Mr. Mell. Mr. Mell took his 
meals with the boys, but Mr. Sharp dined and supped at Mr. 
Creakle’s table. He was a limp, delicate-looking gentleman, 
I thought, with a good deal of nose, and a way of carrying 
his head on one side as if it were a little too heavy for him. 
His hair was very smooth and wavy ; but I was informed by 
the very first boy who came back that it was a wig (a second- 
hand one /le said), and that Mr. Sharp went out every Satur- 
day afternoon to get it curled. 

It was no other than Tommy Traddles who gave me this 
piece of intelligence. He was the first boy who returned. 
He introduced him.self by informing me that I should find 
his name on the right-hand corner of the gate, over the top 
bolt ; upon that I said ‘‘ Traddles ? ” to which he replied, 


192 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOUSE. 


“ the same,” and then he asked me for a full account of my- 
self and family. 

It was a happy circumstance for me that Traddles came 
back first. He enjoyed my placard so much that he saved 
me from the embarrassment of either disclosure or conceal- 
ment, by presenting me to every other boy who came back, 
great or small, immediately on his arrival, in this form of in- 
troduction, “ Look here ! Here’s a game ! ” Happily, too, 
the greater part of the boys came back low-spirited, and were 
not so boisterous at my expense as I had expected. Some 
of them certainly did dance about me like wild Indians, and 
the greater part could not resist the temptation of pretending 
that I was a dog, and patting and smoothing me lest I should 
bite, and saying, “ Lie down. Sir ! ” and calling me Towser. 
This was naturally confusing, among so many strangers, and 
cost me some tears, but on the whole it was much better than 
I had anticipated. 

I was not considered as being formally received into the 
school, however, until J. Steerforth arrived. Before this boy, 
who was reputed to be a great scholar, and was very good look- 
ing, and at least half a-dozen years my senior, I was carried 
as before a magistrate. He inquired, under a shed in the 
play-ground, into the particulars of my punishment, and was 
pleased to express his opinion that it was “a jolly shame,” for 
which I became bound to him ever afterwards. 

“ Wlfat money have you got, Copperfield ? ” he said, walk- 
ing aside with me when he had disposed of my affair in these 
terms. 

I told him seven shillings. 

“ You had better give it to me to take care of,” he said. 

At least, you can if you like. You needn’t if you don’t like.” 

I hastened to comply with his friendly suggestion, and 
opening Peggotty’s purse, turned it upside down into his hand. 

“ Do you want to spend any thing now ? ” he asked me. 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOUSE. 193 

“ No, thank you,” I replied. 

“You can, if you like, you know,” said Steerforth. “Say 
the word.” 

“No, thank you, Sir,” I repeated. 

“ Perhaps you’d like to spend a couple of shillings, or so, 
in a bottle of currant wine by and by, up in the bedroom ? ” 
said Steerforth. “ You belong to my bedroom, I find.” 

It certainly had not occurred to me before, but I said. Yes, 
I should like that. 

“ Very good,” said Steerforth. “ You’ll be glad to spend 
another shilling or so, in almond cakes, I dare say ? ” 

I said, Yes, I should like that, too. 

“ And another shilling or so in biscuits, and another in 
fruit, eh ? ” said Steerforth. “ I say, young Copperfield, you’re 
going it ! ” 

I smiled because he smiled, but I was a little troubled in 
my mind, too. 

“Well!” said Steerforth. “We must make it stretch as 
far as we can ; that’s all. I’ll do the best in my power for 
you. I can go out when I like, and I’ll smuggle the prog in.” 
With these words he put the money in his pocket, and kindly 
told me not to make myself uneasy; he would take care it 
should be all right. 

He was as good as his word, if that were all right which I 
had a secret misgiving was nearly all wrong — for I feared it 
was a waste of my mother’s two half crowns — though I had 
preserved the piece of paper they were wrapped in ; which 
was a precious saving.' When we went up-stairs to bed, he 
produced the whole seven shilling’s worth, and laid it out on 
my bed in the moonlight, saying : 

“ There you are, young Copperfield, and a royal spread 
you’ve got ! ” 

I couldn’t think of doing the honors of the feast, at my time 
of life, while he was by ; my hand shook at the very thought 
9 


194 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOUSE. 


of it. I begged him to do me the. favor of presiding ; and my 
request being seconded by the other boys who were in that 
room, he acceded to it, and sat upon my pillow, handing round 
the viands — with perfect fairness, I must say — and dispensing 
the currant wine in a little glass without a foot, which was his 
own property. As to me, I sat on his left hand, and the rest 
were grouped about us, on the nearest beds, and on the floor. 

How well I recollect our sitting there, talking in whispers ; 
or their talking, and my respectfully listening, I ought rather 
to say; the moonlight falling a little way into the room, 
through the window, painting a pale window on the floor, and 
the greater part of us in shadow, except when Steerforth dip- 
ped a match into a phosphorus-box when he wanted to look 
for any thing on the board, and shed a blue glare over us that 
was gone directly ! A certain mysterious feeling, consequent 
on the darkness, the secrecy of the revel, and the whisper in 
which every thing was said, steals over me again, and I listen 
to all they tell me with a vague feeling of solemnity and awe, 
which makes me glad that they are all so near, and frightens 
me, though I fain, to laugh, when Traddles pretends to see a 
ghost in the corner. 

I heard all kinds of things about the school and all belong- 
ing to it. I heard that Mr. Creakle had not preferred his claim 
to being a Tartar without reason ; that he was the sternest and 
most severe of masters ; that he laid about him, right and left, 
every day of his life, charging in among the boys like a troop- 
er, and slashing away unmercifully. That he knew nothing 
himself but the art of slashing, being more ignorant, J. Steer- 
forth said, than the lowest boy in the school ; that he had 
been, a good many years ago, a small hop-dealer in the bor- 
ough, and had taken to the schooling business after being 
bankrupt in hops, and making away with Mrs. Creakle’s money. 
With a good deal more of that sort, which I wondered how 
they knew. 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOUSE. 


195 


I heard that the man with the wooden leg, whose name 
was Tungay, was an obstinate barbarian who had formerly as- 
sisted in the hop business, but had come into the scholastic 
line with Mr. Creakle, in consequence, as was supposed among 
the boys, of his having broken his leg in Mr. Creakle’s service, 
and having done a deal of dishonest work for him, and know- 
ing his secrets. I heard that with the single exception of Mr. 
Creakle, Tungay considered the whole establishment, masters 
and boys, as his natural enemies, and that the only delight of 
his life was to be sour and malicious. I heard that Mr. Creakle 
had a son, who had not been Tungay’s friend, and who, assist- 
ing in the school, had once held some remonstrance with his 
father on an occasion when its discipline was very cruelly ex- 
ercised, and was supposed, besides, to have protested against 
his father’s usage of his mother. I heard that Mr. Creakle 
had turned him out of doors in consequence ; and that Mrs. and 
Miss Creakle had been in a sad way ever since. 

But the greatest wonder I heard about Mr. Creakle was, 
there being one boy in the school on whom he never ventured 
to lay a hand, and that boy being J. Steerforth. Steerforth 
himself confirmed this when it was stated, and said that he 
should like to begin to see him do it. On being asked by a 
mild boy (not me) how he would proceed if he did begin to see 
him do it, he dipped a match into his phosphorus-box on pur- 
pose to shed a glare over his reply, and said he would com- 
mence with knocking him down with a blow on the forehead 
from the seven- and six-penny ink-bottle that was always on the 
mantel-piece. We sat in the dark for some time, breathless. 

I heard that Air. Sharp and Mr. Mell were both supposed 
to be wretchedly paid ; and that when there was hot and cold 
meat for dinner at Mr. Creakle’s table, Mr. Sharp was always 
expected to say he preferred cold ; which was again corrobo- 
rated by J. Steerforth, the only parlor-boarder. I heard that 
Mr. Sharp’s wig didn’t fit him ; and that he needn’t be so 


196 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOUSE. 


“bounceable” — somebody else said “bumptious” — about it, 
because his own red hair was very plainly to be seen behind. 

I heard that one boy, ^vho was a coal-merchant’s son, came 
as a set-off against the coal-bill, and was called on that account 
“ Exchange or Barter ” — a name selected from the arithmetic- 
book as expressing this arrangement. I heard that the table- 
beer was a robbery of parents, and the puddings an imposition. 
I heard that Miss Creakle was regarded by the school in gen- 
eral as being in love with Steerforth ; and I am sure, as I sat 
in the dark, thinking of his nice voice, and his fine face, and 
his easy manner, and his curling hair, I thought it very likely. 
I heard that Mr. Mell was not a bad sort of fellow, but hadn’t 
a sixpence to bless himself with ; and that there was no doubt 
that old Mrs. Mell, his mother, was as poor as Job. 

The hearing of all this, and a good deal more, outlasted the 
banquet some time. The greater part of the guests had gone 
to bed as soon as the eating and drinking were over ; and we, 
who had remained whispering and listening, half-undressed, at 
last betook ourselves to bed too. 

“ Good-night, young Copperfield,” said Steerforth, “ I’ll 
take care of you.” 

“You’re very kind,” I gratefully returned. “I am very 
much obliged to you.” 

“You haven’t got a sister, have you?” said Steerforth, 
yawning. 

“No,” I answered. 

“ That’s a pity,” said Steerforth. “ If you had had one, I 
should think she would have been a pretty, timid, little, bright- 
eyed sort of girl. I should have liked to know her. Good- 
night, young Copperfield.” 

“ Good-night, Sir,” I replied. 

I thought of him very much after I went to bed, and raised 
myself, I recollect, to look at him where he lay in the moonlight, 
with his handsome face turned up, and his head reclining eas- 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOUSE. 


19Y 


ily on his arm. He was a person of great power in my eyes ; 
that was of course the reason of my mind running on him. No 
veiled future dimly glanced upon him in the moonbeams. There 
was no shadowy picture of his footsteps in the garden that I 
dreamed of walking in all night. 

School began in earnest next day. A profound impression 
was made upon me, I remember, by the roar of voices in the 
school-room suddenly becoming hushed as death when Mr. 
Creakle entered after breakfast, and stood in the door-way look- 
ing round upon us like a giant in a story book surveying his 
captives. 

Tungay stood at Mr. Creakle’s elbow. He had no occasion, 
I thought, to cry out “ Silence ! ” so ferociously, for the boys 
were all struck speechless and motionless. 

Mr. Creakle was seen to speak, and Tungay was heard, to 
this effect : 

“ Now, boys, this is a new half Take care what you’re 
about in this new half. Come fresh up to the lessons, I advise 
you, for I come fresh up to the punishment. I won’t flinch. 
It will be of no use your rubbing yourselves ; you won’t rub the 
marks out that I shall give you. Now get to work, every boy ! ” 

When this dreadful exordium was over, and Tungay had 
stumped out again, Mr. Creakle came to where I sat, and told 
me that if I were famous for biting, he was famous for biting, too. 
He then showed me the cane, and asked me what I thought of 
that^ for a tooth ? Was it a sharp tooth, hey ? Was it a double 
tooth, hey ? Had it a deep prong, hey ? Did it bite, hey ? 
Did it .bite? At every question he gave me a fleshy cut with 
it that made me writhe ; so I was very soon made free of Salem 
House (as Steerforth said) and very soon in tears also. 

Not that I mean to say these were especial marks of dis- 
tinction which only I received. On the contrary, a large ma- 
jority of the boys, especially the smaller ones, were visited with 
similar instances of notice, as Mr. Creakle made the round of 


198 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOUSE. 


the school-room. Half the establishment was writhing and 
crying before the day’s work began ; and how much of it had 
writhed and cried before the day’s work was over, I am really 
afraid to recollect, lest I should seem to exaggerate. 

I should think there never can have been a man who en- 
joyed his iDrofession more than Mr. Creakle did. He had a 
delight in cutting at the boys, which was like the satisfaction 
of a craving appetite. I am confident that he couldn’t resist 
a chubby boy, especially ; that there was a fascination in such 
a subject which made him restless in his mind until he had 
scored and marked him for the day. I was chubby myself, and 
ought to know. I am sure when I think of the fellow now, my 
blood rises against him with the disinterested indignation I 
should feel if I could have known all about him without having 
ever been in his power ; but it rises hotly, because I know him to 
have been an incapable brute, who had no more right to be 
possessed of the great trust he held, than to be Lord High Ad- 
miral, or Commander-in-Chief ; in either of which capacities, 
it is probable, that he would have done infinitely less mis- 
chief. 

Miserable little propitiators of a remorseless Idol, how ab- 
ject we were to him ! what a launch in life I think it now, on 
looking back, to be so mean and seiwile to a man of such parts 
and pretensions ! 

Here I sit at the desk again, watching his eye — humbly 
watching his eye, as he rules a ciphering-book for another vic- 
tim whose hands have just been flattened by that identical 
ruler, and who is trying to wipe the sting out with a pocket- 
handkerchief. I have plenty to do. I don’t watch his eye in 
idleness, but because I am morbidly attracted to it, in a dread 
desire to know what he will do next, and whether it will be 
my turn to suffer, or somebody else’s. A lane of small boys 
beyond me, with the same interest in his eye, watched it too. 

I think he knows it, though he pretends he don’t. He makes 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOUSE. 


199 


dreadful mouths as he rules the ciphering-book ; and now he 
throws his eye sideways down our lane, and we all droop over 
our books and tremble. A moment afterwards we are again 
eyeing him. An unhappy culprit, found guilty of imperfect ex- 
ercise, approaches at his command. The culprit falters ex- 
cuses, and professes a determination to do better to-morrow. 
Mr. Creakle cuts a joke before he beats him, and we laugh at 
it, — miserable little dogs, we laugh, with our visages as white 
as ashes and our hearts sinking into our boots. 

Here I sit at the desk again, on a drowsy summer afternoon. 
A buzz and hum go up around me, as if the boys were so 
many blue-bottles. A cloggy sensation of the lukewarm fat 
of meat is upon me (we dined an hour or two ago), and my 
head is as heavy as so much lead. 1 would give the world to 
go to sleep. I sit with my eye on Mr. Creakle, blinking at him 
like a young owl ; when sleep overpowers me for a minute, he 
still looms through my slumbers, ruling those ciphering-books ; 
until he softly comes behind me and wakes me to plainer j^ercep- 
tion of him, with a red ridge across my back. 

Here I am in the play-ground, with my eye still fascinated 
by him, though I can’t see him. The window at a little dis- 
tance from which I know he is having his dinner, stands for 
him, and I eye that instead. If he shows his face near it, 
mine assumes an imploring and submissive expression. If he 
looks out through the glass, the boldest boy (Steerforth except- 
ed) stops in the middle of a shout or yell, and becomes con- 
templative. One day Traddles, the most unfortunate boy in 
the world, breaks that window accidently with a ball. I shud- 
der at this moment with the tremendous sensation of seeing it 
done, and feeling that the ball has bounded on to Mr. Creakle’s 
sacred head. 

Poor Traddles ! In a tight sky-blue suit that made his arms 
and legs like German sausages, or roly-poly puddings, he was 
the merriest and most miserable of all the boys. He was al- 


200 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOUSE. 


ways being caned — I think he was caned every day that half- 
year, except one holiday Monday when he was only rulered 
on both hands — and was always going to vt^rite to his uncle 
about it, and never did. After laying his head on the desk 
for a little while, he would cheer up somehow, begin to laugh 
again, and draw skeletons all over his slate before his eyes 
were dry. I used at first to wonder what comfort Traddles 
found in drawing skeletons ; and for some time looked upon 
him as a sort of hermit, who reminded himself by those sym- 
bols of mortality that caning couldn’t last forever. But I be- 
lieve he only did it because they were easy, and didn’t want 
any features. 

He was very honorable, Traddles was; and held it as a 
solemn duty in the boys to stand by one another. He suffer- 
ed for this on several occasions ; and particularly once, when 
Steerforth laughed in church, and the beadle ‘thought it was 
Traddles, and took him out. I see him now, going away in 
custody, despised by the congregation. He never said who 
was the real offender, though he smarted for it next day, and 
was imprisoned so many hours that he came forth with a whole 
churchyard full of skeletons swarming all over his Latin Dic- 
tionary. But he had his reward. Steerforth said there was 
nothing of the sneak in Traddles, and we all felt that to be the 
highest praise. For my part, I could have gone through a 
good deal, though I was much less brave than Traddles, and 
nothing like so old, to have won such a recompense. 

*#***•***## 

Steerforth continued his protection of me, and proved a 
very useful friend ; since nobody dared to annoy one whom 
he honored with his countenance. He couldn’t — or at all 
events he didn’t — defend me from Mr. Creakle, who was very 
severe with me ; but whenever I had been treated worse than 
usual, he always told me that I wanted a little of his pluck, 
and that he wouldn’t have stood it himself; which I felt he 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOUSE. 


201 


intended for encouragement, and considered to be very kind 
of him. There was one advantage, and only one that I know 
of, in Mr. Creakle’s severity. He found my placard in his ? 
way when he came up or dowq behind the form on which I 
sat, and wanted to make a cut at me in passing ; for this rea- 
son it was soon taken off, and I saw it no more. 

#******❖❖ 

I pass over all that happened at school, until the anniver- 
sary of my birthday came round in March. Except that 
Steerforth was more to be admired than ever, I remember 
nothing. He was going away at the end of the half-year, if 
not sooner, and was more spirited and independent than be- 
fore in my eyes, and therefore more engaging than before; 
but beyond this I remember nothing. The great remembrance 
by which that time is marked in my mind, seems to have swal- 
lowed up all lesser recollections, and to exist alone. 

How well I recollect the kind of day it was ! I smell the 
fog that hung about the place ; I see the hoar-frost, ghostly, 
through it ; I feel my rimy hair fall clammy on my cheek ; I 
look along the dim perspective of the school-room, with a sput- 
tering candle here and there to light up the foggy morning, 
and the breath of the boys wreathing and smoking in the raw 
cold as they blow upon their fingers, and tap their feet upon 
the floor. 

It was after breakfast, and we had been summoned in from 
the play-ground, when Mr. Sharp entered and said : 

“ David Copperfield is to go into the parlor.” 

I expected a hamper from Peggotty, and brightened at the 
order. Some of the boys about me put in their claim not to 
be forgotten in the distribution of the good things, as I got out 
of my seat with great alacrity. 

“Don’t hurry, David,” said Mr. Sharp. “There’s time 
enough, my boy, don’t hurry.” 

I might have been surprised by the feeling tone in which he 


202 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOUSE; 


spoke, if I had given it a thought ; but I gave it none until after- 
wards. I hurried away to the parlor ; and there I found Mr. 
Creakle sitting at his breakfast with the cane and a newspaper 
before him, and Mrs. Creakle with an opened letter in her 
hand. But no hamper. 

David Copperfield,” said Mrs. Creakle, leading me to a 
sofa, and sitting down beside me, “ 1 want to speak to you 
very particularly. I have something to tell yon, my cliild.” 

Mr. Creakle, at whom of course I looked, shook his head 
without looking at me, and stopped up a sigh with a very large 
piece of buttered toast. 

“ You are too young to know how the world changes every 
day,” said Mrs. Creakle, “ and how the people in it pass away. 
But we all have to learn it, David ; some of us when we are 
young, some of us when we are old, some of us at all times 
of our lives.” 

I looked at her earnestly. 

“ When you came away from home at the end of the vaca- 
tion,” said Mrs. Creakle, after a pause, ‘‘ were they all well ? 
After another pause, “ Was your mamma well ? ” 

I trembled without distinctly knowing why, and still looked 
at her earnestly, making no attempt to answer. 

“ Because,” said she, “ I grieve to tell you that I hear this 
morning your mamma is very ill.” 

A mist arose between Mrs. Creakle and me, and her figure 
seemed to move in it for an instant. Then I felt the burning 
tears run down my face, and it was steady again. 

“ She is dangerously ill,” she added. 

I knew all now. 

“ She is dead.” 

There was no need to tell me so. I had already broken out 
into a desolate cry, and felt an orphan in the wide world. 

She was very kind to me. She kept me there all day, and left 
me alone sometimes ; and I cried, and wore myself to sleep, 


THE SCHOOL AT SALEM HOUSE. 


203 


and awoke and cried again. When I could cry no more, I 
began to think ; and then the oppression on my breast was 
heaviest, and my grief a dull pain that there was no ease for. 

I was to go home next night ; not by the mail, but by the 
heavy night- coach, which was called the Farmer, and was prin- 
cipally used by country-jDeople travelling short intermediate dis- 
tances uiDon the road. We had no story-telling that evening, 
and Traddles insisted on lending me his pillow. I don’t know 
what good he thought it would do me, for I had one of my own ; 
but it was all he had to lend, poor fellow, except a sheet of let- 
ter paper full of skeletons, and that he gave me at parting, as 
a soother of my sorrows and a contribution to my peace of 
mind. 

I left Salem House upon the morrow afternoon. I little 
thought then that I left it never to return. 





THE SCHOOL AT DR STEOHG’S. 


[ FROM " DAVID COPPERFIELD. ] 



EXT morning, after breakfast, I entered on school life 


JL 1 again. I went, accompanied by Mr. Wickfield, to the 
scene of my future studies — a grave building in a court-yard, 
with a learned air about it that seemed very well suited to the 
stray rooks and jackdaws who came down from the Cathedral 
towers to walk with a clerkly bearing on the grass plot — and 
was introduced to my new master. Dr. Strong. 

Dr. Strong looked almost as rusty, to my thinking, as the 
tall iron rails and gates outside the house ; and almost as stiff 
and heavy as the great stone urns that flanked them, and were 
set up, on the top of the red-brick wall, at regular distances all 
round the court, like sublimated skittles, for Time to play at. 
He was in his library (I mean Dr. Strong was), with his clothes 
not particularly well brushed, and his hair not particularly well 
combed ; his knee-smalls unbraced ; his long black gaiters un- 
buttoned ; and his shoes yawning like two caverns on the 
hearth-rug. Turning upon me a lustreless eye, that remind- 
ed me of a long-forgotten blind old horse who once used 
to crop the grass and tumble over the graves in Blunderstone 
church-yard, he said he was glad to see me ; and then he gave 
me his hand ; which I didn’t know what to do with, as it did 
nothing for itself 


206 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. STEONo’s 

But, sitting at work, not far off from Dr. Strong, was a very 
pretty young lady, — whom he called Annie, and who was his 
daughter, I supposed, — who got me out of my difficulty by kneel- 
ing down to put Dr. Strong’s shoes on and button his gaiters, 
which she did with great cheerfulness and quickness. When 
she had finished, and we were going out to the school-room, I 
was much surprised to hear Mr. Wickfield,'in bidding her good- 
morning, address her as “ Mrs. Strong ; ” and I was wonder- 
ing could she be .Doctor Strong’s son’s wife, or could she be 
Mrs. Doctor Strong, when Dr. Strong himself unconsciously 
enlightened me. 

The school-room was a pretty large hall, on the quietest 
side of the house, confronted by the stately stare of some half- 
dozen of the great urns, and commanding a peep of an old se- 
cluded garden belonging to the Doctor, where the peaches 
were ripening on the sunny south wall. There were two great 
aloes, in tubs, on the turf outside the windows; the broad 
hard leaves of which plant, looking as if they were made of 
painted tin, have ever since, by association, been symbolical to 
me of silence and retirement. About five-and- twenty boys 
were studiously engaged at their books when we went in, but 
they rose to give the Doctor good-morning, and remained stand- 
ing when they saw Mr. Wickfield and me. 

“ A new boy, young gentlemen,” said the Doctor ; “ Trot- 
wood Copperfield.” 

One Adams, who was the head-boy, then stepped out of 
his place and welcomed me. He looked like a young clergy- 
man, in his white cravat, but he was very affable and good- 
humored ; and he showed me my place, and presented me to 
the masters in a gentlemanly way that would have put me at 
my ease, if any thing could. 

It seemed to me so long, however, since I had been among 
such boys, that I felt as strange as ever I have done in all my 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. STRONg’s 207 

life. I was so conscious of having passed through scenes of 
which they could have no knowledge, and of having acquired 
experiences foreign to my age, appearance, and condition as 
'^ne of them, that I half believed it was an imposture to come 
there as an ordinary little school-boy. I had become so un- 
used to the sports and games of boys, that I knew I was awk- 
ward and inexperienced in the commonest things belonging to 
them. Whatever I had learnt, had so slipped away from me 
in the sordid cares of my life from day to night, that now, when 
I was examined about what I knew, I knew nothing, and was 
put into the lowest form of the school. But, troubled as I was, 
by my want of boyish skill, and of book-learning too, I was 
made infinitely more uncomfortable by the consideration that, 
in what I did know, I was much farther removed from my com- 
panions than in what I did not. * * * * All this ran in 

my head so much, on that first day at Dr. Strong’s, that I felt 
distrustful oPmy slightest look or gesture ; shrunk within my- 
self whensoever I was approached by one of my new school- 
fellows ; and hurried off the minute school was over, afraid of 
committing myself in any response to any friendly notice or 
^advance. 

But there was such an influence in Mr. Wickfield’s old 
house, that when I knocked at it, with my new school-books 
under my arm, I began to feel my uneasiness softening away. 
As I went up to my airy old room, the grave shadow of the 
staircase seemed to fall upon my doubts and fears, and to 
make the past more indistinct. I sat there, sturdily conning 
my books, until dinner-time (we were out of school for good at 
three) ; and went down, hopeful of becoming a passable sort of 
boy yet. 

I got a little the better of my uneasiness when I went to 
school next day, and a good deal the better next day, and so 
shook it off by degrees that in. less than a fortnight I was 
quite at home, and happy, among my new companions. I was 


208 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. STRONG S 


awkward enough in their games, and backward enough in their 
studies ; but custom would improve me in the first respect, I 
hoped, and hard work in the second. Accordingly, I went to 
work very hard, both in play and in earnest, and gained great 
commendation. 

Doctor Strong’s was an excellent school ; as different from 
Mr. Creakle’s as good is from evil. It was very gravely and 
decorously ordered, and on a sound system ; with an appeal, in 
every thing, to the honor and good faith of the boys, and an 
avowed intention to rely on their possession of those qualities 
unless they proved themselves unworthy of it, which worked 
wonders. We all felt that we had a part in - the management 
of the place, and in sustaining its character and dignity. Hence, 
we soon became w'armly attached to it — I am sure I did for 
one, and I never knew, in all my time, of any other boy being 
otherwise — and learnt with a good will, desiring to do it cred- 
it. We had noble games out of hours, and plenty of libert}" ; 
but even then, as I remember, we were well spoken of in the 
town, and rarely did any disgrace, by our appearance or man- 
ner, to the reputation of Doctor Strong and Doctor Strong’s 
boys. 

Some of the higher scholars boarded in the Doctor’s house, 
and through them I learned, at second hand, some particulars 
of the Doctor’s history — as how he had not yet been married 
twelve months to the beautiful young lady I had seen in the 
study, whom he had married for love ; as she had not a six- 
pence, and had a world of poor relations (so our fellows said) 
ready to swarm the Doctor out of house and home. Also, how 
the Doctor’s cogitating manner was attributable to his being 
always engaged in looking out Greek roots ; which, in my in- 
nocence and ignorance, I supposed to be a botanical furor on 
the Doctor’s part, especially as he always looked at the ground 
when he walked about, until I understood that they were roots 
of words, with a view to a new Dictionary which he had in 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. STEONg’s. 


209 


contemplation. Adams, our head-boy, who had a turn for 
mathematics, had made a calculation, I was informed, of the 
time this Dictionary would take in completing, on the Doctor’s 
plan, and at the Doctor’s rate of going. He considered that 
it might be done in one thousand six hundred and forty-nine 
years, counting from the Doctor’s last, or sixty-second birthday. 

But the Doctor himself was the idol of the whole school ; 
and it must have been a badly composed school if he had been 
any thing else, for he was the kindest of men, with a simple 
faith in him that might have touched the stone hearts of the 
very urns upon the wall. As he walked up and down that 
part of the court-yard which was at the side of the house, with 
the stray rooks and jackdaws looking after him with their heads 
cocked slyly, as if they knew how much more knowing they 
were in worldly affairs than he ; if any sort of vagabond could 
only get near enough to his creaking shoes to attract his atten- 
tion to one sentence of a tale of distress, that vagabond was 
made for the next two days. It was so notorious in the house 
that the masters and head-boys took pains to cut these ma- 
rauders off at angles, and to get out of windows and turn them 
out of the court-yard before they could make the Doctor aware 
of their presence ; which was sometimes happily effected within 
a few yards of him, without his knowing any thing of the mat- 
ter, as he jogged to and fro. Outside his own domain, and 
unprotected, he was a very sheep for the*^hearers. He would 
have taken his gaiters off his legs to give away. In fact, there 
was a story current among us (I have no idea, and never had, 
on what authority, but I have believed it for so many years 
that I feel quite certain it is true), that on a frosty day, one 
winter-time, he actually did bestow his gaiters on a beggar- 
woman, who occasioned some scandal in the neighborhood by 
exhibiting a fine infant from door to door, wrapped in those 
garments, which were universally recognized, being as well 
known in the vicinity as the Cathedral. The legend added 


210 


THE SCHOOL AT DK. STEOKG’s. 


that the only person who did not identify them was the Doctor 
himself, who, when they were shortly afterwards displayed at 
the door of a little second-hand shop of no very good repute, 
where such things were taken in exchange for gin, was more 
than once observed to handle them approvingly, as if admiring 
some curious novelty iu the pattern, and considering them an 
improvement on his own. 

It was very pleasant to see the Doctor with his pretty young 
wife. He had a fatherly, benignant way of showing his fond- 
ness for her, which seemed in itself to express a good man. I 
often saw them walking in the garden where the peaches were, 
and I sometimes had a nearer observation of them in the study 
or the parlor. She appeared to me to take great care of the 
Doctor, and to like him very much, though I never thought 
her vitally interested in the Dictionary, some cumbrous frag- 
ments of which work the Doctor always carried in his pockets, 
and in the lining of his hat, and generally seemed to be ex- 
pounding to her as they walked about. 

My school days ! The silent gliding on of my existence — 
the unseen, unfelt progress of my life — from childhood up to 
youth ! Let me think, as I look back upon that flowing water, 
now a dry channel overgrown with leaves, whether there are any 
marks along its course by which I can remember how it ran. 

A moment, and I occupy my place in the Cathedral, where 
we all went together, every Sunday morning, assembling first 
at school for that purpose. The earthy smell, the sunless air, 
the sensation of the world being shut out, the resounding of 
the organ through the black and white arched galleries and 
aisles, are wings that take me back, and hold me hovering 
above those days, in a half-sleeping and half-waking dream. 

I am not the last boy in the school. I have risen, in a few 
months, over several heads. 

But the first boy seems to me a mighty creature, dwelling 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. STEONg’s. 


211 


afar off, where giddy height is unattainable. Agnes says “ No,” 
but I say “ Yes,” and tell her she little thinks what stores of 
knowledge have been mastered by the wonderful Being, at 
whose place she thinks I, even I, weak aspirant, may arrive in 
time. He js not my private friend and public patron as Steer- 
forth was, but I hold.him in a reverential respect. I chiefly won- 
der what he’ll be w'hen he leaves Doctor Strong’s, and what 
mankind will do to maintain any place against him. 

But who is this that breaks upon me } This is Miss Shep- 
herd, whom I love. 

Miss Shepherd is a boarder at the Misses Nettingall’s es- 
tablishment. I adore Miss Shepherd. She is a little girl, 
in a spencer, with a round face and curly flaxen hair. The 
Misses Nettingall’s young ladies come to the Cathedral too. 
I cannot look upon my book, for I must look upon Miss Shep- 
herd. When the choristers chant, I hear Miss Shepherd. In 
the service I mentally insert Miss Shepherd’s name — I put 
her in among the Royal Family. At home, in my own room, 
I am sometimes moved to cry out, “Oh, Miss Shepherd! ” in 
a transport of love. 

For some time I am doubtful of Miss Shepherd’s feelings, 
but at length. Fate being propitious, we meet at the dancing- 
school. I have Miss Shepherd for my partner. I touch Miss 
Shepherd’s glove, and feel a thrill go up the right arm of my 
jacket and come out at my hair. I say nothing tender to Miss 
Shepherd, but we understand each other. Miss Shepherd and 
myself live but to be united. 

AVhy do I secretly give Miss Shepherd twelve Brazil nuts for 
a present, I wonder .? They are not expressive of affection, 
they are difficult to pack into a parcel of any regular shape, 
they are hard to crack, even in room-doors, and they are oily 
when cracked 1 yet I feel that they are appropriate to Miss 
Shepherd. Soft, seedy biscuits, also, I bestow upon Miss 
Shepherd; and oranges innumerable. Once, I kiss Miss 


212 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. STRONo’s. 


Shepherd in the cloak-room. Ecstasy ! What are my agony 
and indignation next day when I hear a flying rumor that the 
Misses Nettingall have stood Miss Shepherd in the stocks for 
turning in her toes ! 

Miss Shepherd being the one pervading theme and vision 
of my life, how do I ever come to break with her ? I can’t 
co.nceive. And yet a coolness grows between Miss Shepherd 
and myself. Whispers reach me of Miss Shepherd having said 
she wished I wouldn’t stare so, and having avowed a prefer- 
ence for Master Jones — for Jones ! a boy of no merit whatever. 
The gulf between me and Miss Shepherd widens. At last, 
one day, I meet the Misses Nettingall’s establishment out walk- 
ing. Miss Shepherd makes a face as she goes by, and laughs 
to her companion. All is over. The devotion of a life — it seems 
a life, it is all the same — is at an end ! Miss Shepherd comes 
out of the morning service, and the Royal Family know her no 
more. 

I am higher in the school, and no one breaks my peace. 
I am not at all polite, now, to the Misses Nettingall’s young 
ladies, and shouldn’t dote on any of them if they were twice 
as many and twenty times as beautiful. I think the dancing- 
school a tiresome affair, and wonder why the girls can’t dance 
by themselves, and leave us alone. I am growing great in 
Latin verses, and neglect the laces of my boots. Doctor 
Strong refers to me in public as a promising young scholar. 
Mr. Dick is wild with joy, and my aunt remits me a guinea by 
the next post. 

The shade of a young butcher rises, like the apparition of 
an armed head in Macbeth. Who is this young butcher? 
He is the terror of the youth of Canterbury. There is a 
vague belief abroad that the beef suet with which he anoints 
his hair gives him unnatural strength, and that he is a match 
for a man. He is a broad-faced, bull-necked young butcher, 
with rough red cheeks, an ill-conditioned mind, and an inju- 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. STRONO’s. 


213 


rious tongue. His main use of this tongue is to disparage 
Doctor Strong’s young gentlemen. He says publicly, that if 
they want any thing he’ll give it to ’em. He names individ- 
uals among them (myself included), whom he could -under- 
take to settle witli one hand, and the other tied behind him. 
He waylays the smaller bays to punch their unprotected 
heads, and calls challenges after me in the open streets. For 
these sufficient reasons I resolve to fight the butcher. 

It is a summer evening, down in a green hollow, at the 
corner of a wall. I meet the butcher by appointment. I am 
attended by a select body of our boys the butcher by two 
other butchers, a young publican and a sweep. The prelimi- 
naries are adjusted, and the butcher and myself stand face to 
face. In a moment the butcher lights ten thousand candles 
out of my left eyebrow. In another moment, I don’t know 
where the wall is, or where I am, or where anybody is. I 
hardly know, which is myself and which the butcher, we are 
always in such a tangle and tussle, knocking about upon the 
trodden grass. Sometimes I see the butcher, bloody but 
confident j sometimes I see nothing, and sit gasping on my 
second’s knee ; sometimes I go in at the butcher madly, and 
cut my knuckles open against his face, without appearing to 
discompose him at all. At last I awake, very queer about 
the head, as from a giddy sleep, and see the butcher walking 
off, congratulated by the two other butchers and the sweep 
and publican, and putting on his coat as he goes ; from which 
I augur, justly, that the victory is his. 

I am taken home in a sad plight, and I have beef-steaks 
put to my eyes, and am rubbed with vinegar and brandy, and 
find a great white puffy place bursting out on my upper lip, 
which swells immoderately. For three or four days I remain 
at home, a very ill-looking subject, with a green shade over 
my eyes ; and I should be very dull, but that Agnes is a sister 
to me, and condoles with me, and reads to me, and make the 


214 


THE SCHOOL AT DE. STEONo’s. 


time light and happy. Agnes has my confidence completely, 
always ; I tell her all about the butcher, and the wrongs he 
has heaped upon me ; and she thinks I couldn’t have done 
otherwise than fight the butcher, while she shrinks and trem- 
bles at my having fought him. 

Time has stolen on unobserved, for Adams is not the 
head-boy in the days that are come now, nor has he been this 
many and many a day. Adams has left the school so long, 
that when he comes back, on a visit to Doctor Strong, there 
are not many there, besides myself, who know him. Adams 
is going to be called to the bar almost directly, and is to be 
an advocate, and to wear a wig. I am surprised to find him 
a meeker man than I had thought, and less imposing in ap- 
pearance. He had not staggered the world yet, either ; for it 
goes on, as well as I can make out, pretty much the same as 
if he had never joined it. 

A blank, through which the warriors of poetry and history 
march on in stately hosts that seem to have no end — and what 
comes next! /am the head-boy, now; and looking down on 
the line of boys below me, with a .condescending interest in 
such of them as bring to my mind the boy I was myself, when 
I first came there, that little fellow seems to be no part of 
me ; I remember him as something left behind upon the road 
of life — as something I have passed, rather than have actually 
been — and almost think of him as of some one else. 

And the little girl I saw on that first day at Mr. Wickfield’s, 
where is she ? Gone also. In her stead, the perfect likeness 
of the picture, a child likeness no more, moves about the house ; 
and Agnes — my sweet sister, as I call her in my thoughts, my 
counsellor and friend, the better angel of the lives of all who 
come within her calm, good, self-denying influence — is quite a 
woman. 

I am doubtful whether I was at heart glad or sorry when 


THE SCHOOL AT DR. STRONG’s 


215 


my school-days drew to an end, and the time came for my 
leaving Doctor Strong’s. I had been very happy there ; I had 
a great attachment for the Doctor, and I was eminent and dis- 
tinguished in that little world. For these reasons I was sorry 
to go ; but for other reasons, unsubstantial enough, I was glad. 
Misty ideas of being a young man at my own disposal, of the 
importance attaching to a young man at his own disposal, of 
the wonderful things to be seen and done by that magnificent 
animal, and fhe wonderful effects he could not fail to make 
upon society, lured me away. So powerful were these visiona- 
ry considerations in my boyish mind, that I seem, according 
to my present way of thinking, to have left school without nat- 
ural regret. The separation has not made the impression on 
me that other separations have. I try in vain to recall how I 
felt about it, and what its circumstances were ; but it is not 
momentous in my recollection. I suppose the opening pros- 
pect confused me. I know that my juvenile experiences went 
for little or nothing then ; and that life, was more like a great 
fairy story, which I was just about to begin to read, than any 
thing else. 





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